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POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM    D.    HOWELLS 


BOSTON 
TICKNOR     AND     COMPANY 

211    TREMONT   STREET 

MDCCCLXXXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1873,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 
AND  1885,  BY  WILLIAM  D.  HOWKLLS. 


All  rights  r curved. 


Knibrrsitg  flrrss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  PILOT'S  STORY 3 

FORLORN       .        .        ....        .        .        .  13 

PLEASURE-PAIN 19 

IN  AUGUST 26 

THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 27 

BUBBLES 29 

LOST  BELIEFS 31 

Louis  LEBEAU'S  CONVERSION      .        .        .  32 

CAPRICE 49 

SWEET  CLOVER 51 

THE  ROYAL  PORTRAITS 54 

THE  FAITHFUL  OF  THE  GONZAGA        ...  59 

THE  FIRST  CRICKET 77 

THE  MULBERRIES 79 

BEFORE  THE  GATE 84 

CLEMENT 86 

BY  THE  SEA 97 

SAINT  CHRISTOPHER     .        .        .                ...  98 

ELEGY  ON  JOHN  BUTLER  HOWELLS         .        .        .  100 

THANKSGIVING 105 

A  SPRINGTIME 106 

IN  EARLIEST  SPRING 108 


ii  Contents. 

THE  BOBOLINKS  ARE  SINGING         .        .        .        .110 

PRELUDE 113 

THE  MOVERS 115 

THROUGH  THE  MEADOW       .....  120 

GONE 122 

THE  SARCASTIC  FAIR 123 

RAPTURE 124 

DEAD 125 

THE  DOUBT 127 

THE  THORN  .        . 129 

THE  MYSTERIES 130 

THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CLOUDS      ....  131 

FOR  ONE   OF  THE   KILLED 133 

THE  Two  WITES 134 

BEREAVED 136 

THE  SNOW-BIRDS 138 

VAGARY 139 

FEUERBILDER 141 

AVERT 143 

BOPEEP:  A  PASTORAL 148 

WHILE  SHE  SANG 160 

A  POET 163 

CONVENTION 164 

THE  POET'S  FRIENDS 165 

No  LOVE  LOST 166 

THE  SONG  THE  ORIOLE  SINGS 199 

PORDENONI 201 

THE  LONG  DATS 223 


THE  PILOT'S  STORY. 


rwas  a  story  the  pilot  told,  with  his  back  to 
his  hearers,  — 
Keeping  his  hand  on  the  wheel  and  his  eye  on  the 

globe  of  the  jack-staff, 
Holding  the  boat  to  the  shore  and   out  of  the 

sweep  of  the  current, 
Lightly  turning  aside  for  the  heavy  logs  of  the 

drift-wood, 
Widely  shunning  the  snags  that  made  us  sardonic 

obeisance. 

n. 

All  the  soft,  damp  air  was  full  of  delicate  per- 
fume 

From  the  young  willows  in  bloom  on  either  bank 
of  the  river,  — 

Faint,  delicious  fragrance,  trancing  the  indolent 
senses 

In  a  luxurious  dream  of  the  river  and  land  of  the 
lotus. 


4  The  Pilot's  Story. 

Not  yet  out  of  the  west  the  roses  of  sunset  were 

withered ; 
In  the  deep  blue  above  light  clouds  of  gold  and 

of  crimson 
Floated  in  slumber  serene ;  and  the  restless  river 

beneath  them 
Rushed  away  to  the  sea  with  a  vision  of  rest  in 

its  bosom ; 
Far  on  the  eastern  shore  lay  dimly  the  swamps  of 

the  cypress ; 
Dimly  before  us  the  islands  grew  from  the  river's 

expanses,  — 
Beautiful,  wood-grown  isles,  with  the  gleam  of  the 

swart  inundation 
Seen   through  the  swaying   boughs  and   slender 

trunks  of  their  willows ; 
And  on  the  shore  beside  us  the  cotton-trees  rose 

in  the  evening, 

Phantom-like,  yearningly,   wearily,  with   the   in- 
scrutable sadness 
Of  the  mute  races  of  trees.     While  hoarsely  the 

steam  from  her  'scape-pipes 
Shouted,  then  whispered  a  moment,  then  shouted 

again  to  the  silence, 
Trembling  through  all  her  frame  with  the  mighty 

pulse  of  her  engines, 
Slowly  the  boat  ascended  the  swollen  and  broad 

Mississippi, 


The  Pilot's  Story.  5 

Bank-full,  sweeping  on,  with  tangled  masses  of 
drift-wood, 

Daintily  breathed  about  with  whiffs  of  silvery  va- 
por, 

Where  in  his  arrowy  flight  the  twittering  swallow 
alighted, 

And  the  belated  blackbird  paused  on  the  way  to 
its  nestlings. 

in. 

It  was   the   pilot's   story  :  —  "  They  both   came 

aboard  there,  at  Cairo, 
From  a  New  Orleans  boat,  and  took  passage  with 

us  for  Saint  Louis. 
She  was   a   beautiful  woman,  with  just  enough 

blood  from  her  mother 
Darkening  her  eyes  and   her  hair  to  make  her 

race  known  to  a  trader  : 
You  would  have  thought  she  was  white.      The 

man  that  was  with  her,  —  you  see  such,  — 
Weakly  good-natured  and  kind,  and  weakly  good- 
natured  and  vicious, 
Slender  of  body  and  soul,  fit  neither  for  loving 

nor  hating. 
I  was  a  youngster  then,  and  only  learning  the 

river,  — 
Not  over-fond  of  the  wheel.    I  used  to  watch  them 

at  monte, 


6  The  Pilots  Story. 

Down  in  the  cabin  at  night,  and  learned  to  know 

all  of  the  gamblers. 
So  when  I  saw  this  weak  one  staking  his  money 

against  them, 
Betting  upon  the  turn  of  the  cards,  I  knew  what 

was  coming : 
They  never  left  their  pigeons  a  single  feather  to 

fly  with. 
Next  day  I  saw  them  together,  —  the  stranger  and 

one  of  the  gamblers  : 
Picturesque  rascal  he  was,  with  long  black  hair 

and  moustaches, 
Black  slouch  hat  drawn  down  to  his  eyes  from  his 

villanous  forehead. 
On  together  they  moved,  still  earnestly  talking  hi 

whispers, 
On  toward   the  forecastle,  where  sat  the  woman 

alone  by  the  gangway. 

Roused  by  the  fall  of  feet,  she  turned,  and,  be- 
holding her  master, 
Greeted  him  with  a  smile  that  was  more  like  a 

wife's  than  another's, 
Rose   to  meet  him  fondly,  and  then,  with   the 

dread  apprehension 
Always  haunting  the  slave,  fell  her  eye  on  the 

face  of  the  gambler,  — 
Dark  and  lustful  and  fierce  and  full  of  merciless 

cunning. 


The  Pilot's  Story.  1 

Something  was  spoken  so  low  that  I  could  not 

hear  what  the  words  were ; 
Only  the  woman  started,  and  looked  from  one  to 

the  other, 
With  imploring   eyes,  bewildered  hands,  and   a 

tremor 
All  through  her  frame  :  I  saw  her  from  where  I 

was  standing,  she  shook  so. 
'Say!  is  it  soT  she  cried.     On  the  weak,  white 

lips  of  her  master 
Died  a  sickly  smile,  and  he  said,  '  Louise,  I  have 

sold  you.* 
God  is  my  judge  !     May  I  never  see  such  a  look 

of  despairing, 
Desolate  anguish,  as  that  which  the  woman  cast 

on  her  master, 
Griping  her  breast  with  her  little'  hands,  as  if  he 

had  stabbed  her,     . 
Standing  in  silence  a  space,  as  fixed  as  the  Indian 

woman 
Carved  out  of  wood,  on  the  pilot-house  of  the  old 

Pocahontas  ! 
Then,  with  a  gurgling  moan,  like  the  sound  in  the 

throat  of  the  dying, 
Came    back    her    voice,    that,    rising,    fluttered, 

through  wild  incoherence, 
Into  a  terrible  shriek  that  stopped  my  heart  while 

she  answered  :  — 


8  Tfie  Pilot's  Story. 

1  Sold  me  1  sold  me  ?  sold  —    And  you  promised 

to  give  me  my  freedom  !  — 
Promised  me,  for  the  sake  of  our  little  boy  in 

Saint  Louis ! 
What  will  you  say  to  our  boy,  when  he  cries  for 

me  there  in  Saint  Louis? 
What  will  you  say  to  our  Godl  —  Ah,  you  have 

been  joking  !     I  see  it !  — 
No?  God!  God!   He  shall  hear  it,— and  all  of 

the  angels  in  heaven,  — 
Even  the  devils  in  hell !  —  and  none  will  believe 

when  they  hear  it ! 
Sold  me ! '  —  Her  voice  died  away  with  a  wail, 

and  in  silence 
Down  she  sank  on  the  deck,  and  covered  her  face 

with  her  fingers." 

IV. 

In  his  story  a  moment  the  pilot  paused,  while  we 

listened 
To  the  salute  of  a  boat,  that,  rounding  the  point 

of  an  island, 
Flamed  toward  us  with  fires  that  seemed  to  burn 

from  the  waters,  — 
Stately  and  vast  and  swift,  and  borne  on  the  heart 

of  the  current. 
Then,  with  the  mighty  voice  of  a  giant  challenged 

to  battle, 


The  Pilot's  Story.  9 

Rose  the  responsive  whistle,  and  all  the  echoes  of 

island, 
Swamp-landx   glade,    and    brake    replied   with    a 

myriad  clamor, 
Like  wild  birds  that  are  suddenly  startled  from 

slumber  at  midnight, 
Then  were  at  peace  once  more ;  and  we  heard  the 

harsh  cries  of  the  peacocks 
Perched    on  a  tree   by  a  cabin-door,  where  the 

white-headed  settler's 
White-headed  children  stood  to  look  at  the  boat 

as  it  passed  them, 
Passed  them  so  near  that  we  heard  their  happy 

talk  and  their  laughter. 
Softly  the   sunset   had   faded,   and   now   on   the 

eastern  horizon 
Hung,  like  a  tear  in  the  sky,  the  beautiful  star  of 

the  evening. 

v. 

Still  with  his  back  to  us  standing,  the  pilot  went 
on  with  his  story  :  — 

"  All  of  us  flocked  round  the  woman.  The  chil- 
dren cried,  and  their  mothers 

Hugged  them  tight  to  their  breasts;  but  the 
gambler  said  to  the  captain, — 

'  Put  me  off  there  at  the  town  that  lies  round  the 
bend  of  the  river. 


10  Tlie  Pilot*  Story. 

Here,  you !  rise  at  once,  and  be  ready  now  to  go 

with  me.1 
Roughly  he  seized  the  woman's  arm  and  strove  to 

uplift  her. 
She  —  she  seemed  not  to  heed  him,  but  rose  like 

one  that  is  dreaming, 
Slid  from  his  grasp,  and  fleetly  mounted  the  steps 

of  the  gangway, 

Up  to  the  hurricane-deck,  in  silence,  without  lam- 
entation. 
Straight  to  the  stern  of  the  boat,  where  the  wheel 

was,  she  ran,  and  the  people 
Followed  her  fast  till  she  turned  and  stood  at  bay 

for  a  moment, 
Looking  them  in  the  face,  and  in  the  face  of  the 

gambler. 

Not  one  to  save  her,  —  not  one  of  all  the  compas- 
sionate people  ! 
Not  one  to  save  her,  of  all  the  pitying  angels  in 

heaven ! 
Not  one  bolt  of  God  to  strike  him  dead  there 

before  her  ! 
Wildly  she  waved  him  back,  we  waiting  hi  silence 

and  horror. 
Over  the  swarthy  face  of  the  gambler  a  pallor  of 

passion 
Passed,  like  a  gleam  of  lightning  over  the  west  in 

the  night-time. 


The  Pilot's  Story.  11 

White,  she  stood,  and  mute,  till  he  put  forth  his 
hand  to  secure  her ; 

Then  she  turned  and  leaped,  —  in  mid-air  flut- 
tered a  moment,  — 

Down  then,  whirling,  fell,  like  a  broken-winged 
bird  from  a  tree-top, 

Down  on  the  cruel  wheel,  that  caught  her,  and 
hurled  her,  and  crushed  her, 

And  in  the  foaming  water  plunged  her,  and  hid 
her  forever." 

VI. 

Still  with  his  back  "to  us  all  the  pilot  stood,  but 

we  heard  him 
Swallowing  hard,  as  he  pulled  the  bell-rope  for 

stopping.     Then,  turning,  — 
"  This  is  the  place  where  it  happened,"  brokenly- 
whispered  the  pilot. 
"  Somehow,  I  never  like  to  go  by  here  alone  in 

the  night-time." 
Darkly  the  Mississippi  flowed  by  the  town  that  lay 

in  the  starlight, 
Cheerful  with  lamps.     Below  we  could  hear  them 

reversing  the  engines, 
And  the  great  boat  glided  up  to  the  shore  like  a 

giant  exhausted. 
Heavily  sighed  her  pipes.    Broad  over  the  swamps 

to  the  eastward 


12  The  Pilot's  Story. 

Shone  the  full  moon,  and  turned  our  far-trembling 

wake  into  silver. 
All  was  serene  and  calm,  but  the  odorous  breath 

of  the  willows 
Smote  with  a  mystical  sense  of  infinite  sorrow 

upon  us. 


Forlorn.  13 


FORLORN. 


RED  roses,  in  the  slender  vases  burning, 
Breathed  all  upon  the  air,  — 
The  passion  and  the  tenderness  and  yearning, 
The  waiting  and  the  doubting  and  despair. 

ii. 
Still  with  the  music  of  her  voice  was  haunted, 

Through  all  its  charmed  rhymes, 
The  open  book  of  such  a  one  as  chanted 

The  things  he  dreamed  in  old,  old  summer-times, 

in. 
The  silvern  chords  of  the  piano  trembled 

Still  with  the  music  wrung 
From  them  ;  the  silence  of  the  room  dissembled 

The  closes  of  the  songs  that  she  had  sung. 

IV. 

The  languor  of  the  crimson  shawl's  abasement,  — 
Lying  without  a  stir 


14  Forlorn. 

Upon  the  floor,  —  the  absence  at  the  casement, 
The  solitude  and  hush  were  full  of  her. 

v. 

Without,  and  going  from  the  room,  and  never 

Departing,  did  depart 
Her  steps ;  and  one  that  came  too  late  forever 

Felt  them  go  heavy  o'er  his  broken  heart. 

VI. 

And,  sitting  in  the  house's  desolation, 

He  could  not  bear  the  gloom, 
The  vanishing  encounter  and  evasion 

Of  things  that  were  and  were  not  hi  the  room. 

VII. 

Through   midnight  streets    he  followed    fleeting 
visions 

Of  faces  and  of  forms ; 
He  heard  old  tendernesses  and  derisions 

Amid  the  sobs  and  cries  of  midnight  storms. 

VIIL 
By  midnight  lamps,  and  from  the  darkness  under 

That  lamps  made  at  their  feet, 
He  saw  sweet  eyes  peer  out  in  innocent  wonder, 

And  sadly  follow  after  him  down  the  street. 


Forlorn.  15 

IX. 

The  noonday  crowds  their  restlessness  obtruded 

Between  him  and  his  quest ; 
At  unseen  corners  jostled  and  eluded, 

Against  his  hand  her  silken  robes  were  pressed. 


Doors  closed  upon  her ;  out  of  garret  casements 

He  knew  she  looked  at  him ; 
In  splendid  mansions  and  in  squalid  basements, 

Upon  the  walls  he  saw  her  shadow  swim. 

XI. 

From  rapid  carriages  she  gleamed  upon  him, 

Whirling  away  from  sight ; 
From  all  the  hopelessness  of  search  she  won  him 

Back  to  the  dull  and  lonesome  house  at  night. 

XII. 

Full  early  into  dark  the  twilights  saddened 

Within  its  closed  doors  ; 
The  echoes,  with  the  clock's  monotony  maddened, 

Leaped  loud  in  welcome  from  the  hollow  floors  ; 

XIII. 

But  gusts  that  blew  all  day  with  solemn  laughter 
From  wide-mouthed  chimney-places, 


16  Forlorn. 

And  the  strange  noises  between  roof  and  rafter, 
The  wainscot  clamor,  and  the  scampering  races 

XIV. 

Of   mice   that  chased  each   other   through    the 
chambers, 

And  up  and  down  the  stair. 
And  rioted  among  the  ashen  embers, 

And  left  their  frolic  footprints  everywhere,  — 

xv. 
Were  hushed  to  hear  his  heavy  tread  ascending 

The  broad  steps,  one  by  one, 
And  toward  the  solitary  chamber  tending,  _ 

Where  the  dim  phantom  of  his  hope  alone 

XVI. 

Rose  up  to  meet  him,  with  his  growing  nearer, 

Eager  for  his  embrace, 
And  moved,  and  melted  into  the  white  mirror, 

And  stared  at  him  with  his  own  haggard  face. 

XVII. 

But,  turning,  he  was  'ware  her  looks  beheld  him 

Out  of  the  mirror  white  ; 
And  at  the  window  yearning  arms  she  held  him, 

Out  of  the  vague  and  sombre  fold  of  night. 


Forlorn.  17 

XVIII. 

Sometimes  she  stood  behind  him,  looking  over 

His  shoulder  as  he  read ; 
Sometimes  he  felt  her  shadowy  presence  hover 

Above  his  dreamful  sleep,  beside  his  bed ; 

XIX. 

And  rising  from  his  sleep,  her  shadowy  presence 

Followed  his  light  descent 
Of  the  long  stair ;  her  shadowy  evanescence 

Through  all  the  whispering  rooms  before  him 
went. 

xx. 
Upon  the  earthy  draught  of  cellars  blowing 

His  shivering  lamp-flame  blue, 
Amid  the  damp  and  chill,  he  felt  her  flowing 

Around  him  from  the  doors  he  entered  through. 

XXI. 

The  spiders  wove  their  webs  upon  the  ceiling ; 

The  bat  clung  to  the  wall ; 
The  dry  leaves  through  the  open  transom  stealing, 

Skated  and  danced  adown  the  empty  hall. 

XXII. 

About  him  closed  the  utter  desolation, 
About  him  closed  the  gloom ; 


18  Forlorn. 

The  vanishing  encounter  and  evasion 

Of  things  that  were  and  were  not  in  the  room 

XXIII. 

Vexed  him  forever ;  and  his  life  forever 

Immured  and  desolate, 
Beating  itself,  with  desperate  endeavor, 

But  bruised  itself,  against  the  round  of  fate. 

XXIV. 

The  roses,  in  their  slender  vases  burning, 

Were  quench6d  long  before  ; 
A  dust  was  on  the  rhymes  of  love  and  yearning ; 

The  shawl  was  like  a  shroud  upon  the  floor. 

XXV. 

Her  music  from  the  thrilling  chords  had  perished  \ 

The  stillness  was  not  moved 
With  memories  of  cadences  long  cherished, 

The  closes  of  the  songs  that  she  had  loved. 

XXVI. 

But  not  the  less  he  felt  her  presence  never 

Out  of  the  room  depart ; 
Over  the  threshold,  not  the  less,  forever 

He  felt  her  going  on  his  broken  heart 


Pleasure-Pain.  19 


PLEASURE-PAIN. 

'  Das  Vergniigen  1st  Nichts  als  ein  hochst  angenehmer 
Schmerz." — HEINRICH  HEINE. 


FULL  of  beautiful  blossoms 
Stood  the  tree  in  early  May  : 
Came  a  chilly  gale  from  the  sunset, 
And  blew  the  blossoms  away ; 

Scattered  them  through  the  garden, 
Tossed  them  into  the  mere  : 

The  sad  tree  moaned  and  shuddered, 
"Alas  !  the  Fall  is  here." 

But  all  through  the  glowing  summer 
The  blossomless  tree  throve  fair, 

And  the  fruit  waxed  ripe  and  mellow, 
With  sunny  rain  and  air ; 

And  when  the  dim  October 

With  golden  death  was  crowned, 

Under  its  heavy  branches 

The  tree  stooped  to  the  ground. 


20  Pleasure-Pain. 

In  youth  there  comes  a  west-wind 
Blowing  our  bloom  away,  — 

A. chilly  breath  of  Autumn 
Out  of  the  lips  of  May. 


We  bear  the  ripe  fruit  after,  — 
Ah,  me  !  for  the  thought  of  pain !  • 

We  know  the  sweetness  and  beauty. 
And  the  heart-bloom  never  again. 


ii. 
One  sails  away  to  sea, 

One  stands  on  the  shore  and  cries ; 
The  ship  goes  down  the  world,  and  the  light 

On  the  sullen  water  dies. 

The  whispering  shell  is  mute, 

And  after  is  evil  cheer  : 
She  shall  stand  on  the  shore  and  cry  hi  vain, 

Many  and  many  a  year. 

But  the  stately,  wide-winged  ship 
Lies  wrecked  on  the  unknown  deep ; 

Far  under,  dead  in  his  coral  bed, 
The  lover  lies  asleep. 


Pleasure-Pain.  21 


in. 

Through  the  silent  streets  of  the  city, 
In  the  night's  unbusy  noon, 

Up  and  down  in  the  pallor 
Of  the  languid  summer  moon, 

I  wander,  and  think  of  the  village, 
And  the  house  in  the  maple-gloom, 

And  the  porch  with  the  honeysuckles 
And  the  sweet-brier  all  abloom. 

My  soul  is  sick  with  the  fragrance 
Of  the  dewy  sweet-brier's  breath  : 

0  darling  !  the  house  is  empty, 
And  lonesomer  than  death  ! 

If  I  call,  no  one  will  answer ; 

If  I  knock,  no  one  will  come  : 
The  feet  are  at  rest  forever, 

And  the  lips  are  cold  and  dumb. 

The  summer  moon  is  shining 
So  wan  and  large  and  still, 

And  the  weary  dead  are  sleeping 
In  the  graveyard  under  the  hill. 


22  Pleasure-Pain. 


TV. 

We  looked  at  the  wide,  white  circle 

Around  the  Autumn  moon, 
And  talked  of  the  change  of  weather  : 

It  would  rain,  to-morrow,  or  soon. 

And  the  rain  came  on  the  morrow, 

And  beat  the  dying  leaves 
From  the  shuddering  boughs  of  the  maples 

Into  the  flooded  eaves. 

The  clouds  wept  out  their  sorrow ; 

But  in  my  heart  the  tears 
Are  bitter  for  want  of  weeping, 

In  all  these  Autumn  years. 

v. 

The  bobolink  sings  in  the  meadow, 

The  wren  in  the  cherry-tree  : 
Come  hither,  thou  little  maiden, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee  ; 

And  I  will  tell  thee  a  story 

I  read  in  a  book  of  rhyme ; 
I  will  but  fain  that  it  happened 

To  me,  one  summer-time, 


Pleasure-Pain.  23 

When  we  walked  through  the  meadow, 

And  she  and  I  were  young. 
The  story  is  old  and  weary 

With  being  said  and  sung. 

The  story  is  old  and  weary : 

Ah,  child  !  it  is  known  to  thee. 
Who  was  it  that  last  night  kissed  thee 

Under  the  cherry-tree  ? 

VI. 

Like  a  bird  of  evil  presage, 

To  the  lonely  house  on  the  shore 
Came  the  wind  with  a  tale  of  shipwreck, 

And  shrieked  at  the  bolted  door, 

And  flapped  its  wings  in  the  gables, 
And  shouted  the  well-known  names, 

And  buffeted  the  windows 

Afeard  in  their  shuddering  frames. 

It  was  night,  and  it  is  morning,  — 

The  summer  sun  is  bland, 
The  white-cap  waves  come  rocking,  rocking, 

In  to  the  summer  land. 

The  white-cap  waves  come  rocking,  rocking, 
In  the  sun  so  soft  and  bright, 


24  Pleasure-Pain. 

And  toss  and  play  with  the  dead  man 
Drowned  in  the  storm  last  night 

VII. 

I  remember  the  burning  brushwood, 
Glimmering  all  day  long 

Yellow  and  weak  in  the  sunlight, 
Now  leaped  up  red  and  strong, 

And  fired  the  old  dead  chestnut, 
That  all  our  years  had  stood, 

Gaunt  and  gray  and  ghostly, 
Apart  from  the  sombre  wood  ; 

And,  flushed  with  sudden  summer, 
The  leafless  boughs  on  high 

Blossomed  in  dreadful  beauty 
Against  the  darkened  sky. 

We  children  sat  telling  stories, 
And  boasting  what  we  should  be, 

When  we  were  men  like  our  fathers, 
And  watched  the  blazing  tree, 

That  showered  its  fiery  blossoms, 
Like  a  rain  of  stars,  we  said, 

Of  crimson  and  azure  and  purple. 
That  night,  when  I  lay  in  bed, 


Pleasure-Pain.  25 

I  could  not  sleep  for  seeing, 

Whenever  I  closed  my  eyes, 
The  tree  in  its  dazzling  splendor 

Against  the  darkened  skies. 

I  cannot  sleep  for  seeing, 

With  closed  eyes  to-night, 
The  tree  in  its  dazzling  splendor 

Dropping  its  blossoms  bright ; 

And  old,  old  dreams  of  childhood 
Come  thronging  my  weary  brain, 

Dear,  foolish  beliefs  and  longings  : 
I  doubt,  are  they  real  again  ] 

It  is  nothing,  and  nothing,  and  nothing, 

That  I  either  think  or  see  : 
The  phantoms  of  dead  illusions 

To-night  are  haunting  me. 


26  In  August. 


IN  AUGUST. 

ALL  the  long  August  afternoon, 
The  little  drowsy  stream 
Whispers  a  melancholy  tune, 
As  if  it  dreamed  of  June 

And  whispered  in  its  dream. 

The  thistles  show  beyond  the  brook 
Dust  on  their  down  and  bloom, 

And  out  of  many  a  weed-grown  nook 

The  aster-flowers  look 

With  eyes  of  tender  gloom. 

The  silent  orchard  aisles  are  sweet 
With  smell  of  ripening  fruit. 

Through  the  sere  grass,  in  shy  retreat, 

Flutter,  at  coming  feet, 

The  robins  strange  and  mute. 

There  is  no  wind  to  stir  the  leaves, 
The  harsh  leaves  overhead ; 

Only  the  querulous  cricket  grieves, 

And  shrilling  locust  weaves 
A  song  of  Summer  dead. 


The  Empty  House.  27 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE. 

THE  wet  trees  hang  above  the  walks 
Purple  with  damps  and  earthish  stains, 
And  strewn  by  moody,  absent  rains 
With  rose-leaves  from  the  wild-grown  stalks. 

Unmown,  in  heavy,  tangled  swaths, 
The  ripe  June-grass  is  wanton  blown ; 
Snails  slime  the  untrodden  threshold-stone ; 

Along  the  sills  hang  drowsy  moths. 

Down  the  blank  visage  of  the  wall, 

Where  many  a  wavering  trace  appears, 
Like  a  forgotten  trace  of  tears, 

From  swollen  eaves  the  slow  drops  crawl. 

Where  everything  was  wide  before, 

The  curious  wind,  that  comes  and  goes, 
Finds  all  the  latticed  windows  close, 

Secret  and  close  the  bolted  door. 

And  with  the  shrewd  and  curious  wind, 
That  in  the  arche'd  doorway  cries, 


The  Empty  House. 

And  at  the  bolted  portal  tries, 
And  harks  and  listens  at  the  blind,  — 

Forever  lurks  my  thought  about, 
And  in  the  ghostly  middle-night 
Finds  all  the  hidden  windows  bright, 

And  sees  the  guests  go  in  and  out, 

And  lingers  till  the  pallid  dawn, 
And  feels  the  mystery  deeper  there 
In  silent,  gust-swept  chambers,  bare, 

With  all  the  midnight  revel  gone  ; 

But  wanders  through  the  lonesome  rooms, 
Where  harsh  the  astonished  cricket  calls, 
And,  from  the  hollows  of  the  walls 

Vanishing,  start  unshapen  glooms  \ 

And  lingers  yet,  and  cannot  come 
Out  of  the  drear  and  desolate  place, 
So  full  of  ruin's  solemn  grace, 

And  haunted  with  the  ghost  of  home. 


Bubbles.  29 


BUBBLES. 


I  STOOD  on  the  brink  in  childhood, 
And  watched  the  bubbles  go 
From  the  rock-fretted,  sunny  ripple 
To  the  smoother  tide  below ; 

And  over  the  white  creek-bottom, 

Under  them  every  one, 
Went  golden  stars  in  the  water, 

All  luminous  with  the  sun. 

But  the  bubbles  broke  on  the  surface, 
And  under,  the  stars  of  gold 

Broke ;  and  the  hurrying  water 
Flowed  onward,  swift  and  cold. 

ii. 
I  stood  on  the  brink  in  manhood, 

And  it  came  to  my  weary  brain, 
And  my  heart,  so  dull  and  heavy 

After  the  years  of  pain,  — 


30  Bubbles. 

That  every  hollowest  bubble 
Which  over  my  life  had  passed 

Still  into  its  deeper  current 
Some  heavenly  gleam  had  cast ; 

That,  however  I  mocked  it  gayly, 
And  guessed  at  its  hollowness, 

Still  shone,  with  each  bursting  bubble, 
One  star  in  my  soul  the  less.  * 


Lost  Beliefs.  31 


LOST  BELIEFS. 

ONE  after  one  they  left  us ; 
The  sweet  birds  out  of  our  breasts 
Went  flying  away  in  the  morning  : 
Will  they  come  again  to  their  nests  ? 

Will  they  come  again  at  nightfall, 
With  God's  breath  in  their  song  1 

Noon  is  fierce  with  the  heats  of  summer, 
And  summer  days  are  long ! 

0  my  Life,  with  thy  upward  liftings, 
Thy  downward-striking  roots, 

Eipening  out  of  thy  tender  blossoms 
But  hard  and  bitter  fruits !  • — 

In  thy  boughs  there  is  no  shelter 

For  the  birds  to  seek  again. 
The  desolate  nest  is  broken 

And  torn  with  storms  and  rain ! 


32  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 


LOUIS  LEBEAU'S  CONVERSION. 

"VT^ESTERDAY,  while  I  moved  with  the  lan- 
-L  guid  crowd  on  the  Riva, 

Musing  with  idle  eyes  on  the  wide  lagoons  and  the 
islands, 

And  on  the  dim-seen  seaward  glimmering  sails  in 
the  distance, 

Where  the  azure  haze,  like  a  vision  of  Indian- 
Summer, 

Haunted  the  dreamy  sky  of  the  soft  Venetian 
December,  — 

While  I  moved  unwilled  in  the  mellow  warmth  of 
the  weather, 

Breathing  air  that  was  full  of  Old  World  sadness 
and  beauty 

Into  my  thought  came  this  story  of  free,  wild  life 
in  Ohio, 

When  the  land  was  new,  and  yet  by  the  Beautiful 
River 

Dwelt  the  pioneers  and  Indian  hunters  and  boat- 
men. 


Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion.  33 

Pealed  from  the   campanili,   responding   from 

island  to  island, 

Bells  of  that  ancient  faith  whose  incense  and  sol- 
emn devotions 
Rise  from  a  hundred  shrines  in  the  broken  heart 

of  the  city ; 
But  in  my  revery  heard   I  only  the   passionate 

voices 
Of  the  people  that  sang  in  the  virgin  heart  of  the 

forest. 
Autumn  was  in  the  land,  and  the  trees  were  golden 

and  crimson, 
And  from  the  luminous  boughs  of  the  over-elms 

and  the  maples 

Tender  and  beautiful  fell  the  light  in  the  worship- 
pers* faces, 
Softer  than  lights  that  stream  through  the  saints 

on  the  windows  of  churches, 
While  the  balsamy  breath  of  the  hemlocks  and 

pines  by  the  river 
Stole  on  the  winds  through  the  woodland  aisles 

like  the  breath  of  a  censer. 
Loud  the  people  sang  old  camp-meeting  anthems 

that  quaver 
Quaintly  yet  from  lips  forgetful  of  lips  that  have 

kissed  them ; 


34  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 

Loud  they  sang  the  songs  of  the  Sacrifice  and 
Atonement, 

And  of  the  end  of  the  world,  and  the  infinite  ter- 
rors of  Judgment :  — 

Songs  of  ineffable  sorrow,  and  wailing,  compassion- 
ate warning 

Unto  the  generations  that  hardened  their  hearts  to 
their  Savior ; 

Songs  of  exultant  rapture  for  them  tHat  confessed 
him  and  followed, 

Bearing  his  burden  and  yoke,  enduring  and  en- 
tering with  him 

Into  the  rest  of  his  saints,  and  the  endless  reward 
of  the  blessed. 

Loud  the  people  sang ;  but  through  the  sound  of 
their  singing 

Broke  inarticulate  cries  and  moans  and  sobs  from 
the  mourners, 

As  the  glory  of  God,  that  smote  the  apostle  of 
Tarsus, 

Smote  them  and  strewed  them  to  earth  like  leaves 
in  the  breath  of  the  whirlwind. 

Hushed  at  last  was  the  sound  of  the  lamenta- 
tion and  singing ; 

But  from  the  distant  hill  the  throbbing  drum  of 
the  pheasant 


Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion.  35 

Shook  with  its   heavy  pulses  the  depths  of  the 

listening  silence, 
When  from  his  place  arose  a  white-haired  exhorter, 

and  faltered : 
"  Brethren  and  sisters  in  Jesus  !   the  Lord  hath 

heard  our  petitions, 
So  that  the  hearts  of  his  servants  are  awed  and 

melted  within  them,  — 
Even  the  hearts  of  the  wicked  are  touched  by  his 

infinite  mercy. 
All  my  days  in  this  vale  of  tears  the  Lord  hath 

been  with  me, 
He  hath  been  good  to  me,  he, hath  granted  me 

trials  and  patience ; 
But  this  hour  hath  crowned   my  knowledge  of 

him  and  his  goodness. 
Truly,  but  that  it  is  well  this  day  for  me  to  be 

with  you, 
Now  might  I  say  to  the  Lord,  — '  I  know  thee, 

my  God,  in  all  fulness  ; 
Now  let  thy  servant  depart  in  peace  to  the  rest 

thou  hast  promised  ! ' " 

Faltered  and  ceased.     And  now  the  wild  and 

jubilant  music 

Of  the  singing  burst  from  the  solemn  profound  of 
the  silence, 


36  Louis  Lebearfs  Conversion. 

Surged  in  triumph,  and  fell,  and  ebbed  again  into 
silence. 

Then  from  the  group  of  the  preachers  arose  the 

greatest  among  them,  — 
He  whose  days  were  given  in  youth  to  the  praise 

of  the  Savior, 
He  whose  lips  seemed  touched,  like  the  prophet's 

of  old,  from  the  altar, 
So  that  his  words  were  flame,  and  burned  to  the 

hearts  of  his  hearers, 
Quickening  the  dead  among  them,  reviving  the 

cold  and  the  doubting. 
There  he  charged  them  pray,  and  rest  not  from 

prayer  while  a  sinner 
In  the  sound  of  their  voices  denied  the  Friend  of 

the  sinner  : 
"  Pray  till  the  night  shall  fall,  —  till  the  stars  are 

faint  in  the  morning,  — 
Yea,  till  the  sun  himself  be  faint  in  that  glory  and 

brightness, 
Faint  in  the  light  which  shall  dawn  in  mercy  for 

penitent  sinners. " 
Kneeling,  he  led  them  in  prayer ;  and  the  quick 

and  sobbing  responses 
Spake  how  their  souls  were  moved  with  the  might 

and  the  grace  of  the  Spirit. 


Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion.  37 

Then  while  the  converts  recounted  how  God  had 

chastened  and  saved  them,  — 
Children,  whose  golden  locks  yet  shone  with  the 

lingering  effulgence 
Of  the  touches  of  Him  who  blessed  little  children 

forever ; 
Old  men,  whose  yearning  eyes  were  dimmed  with 

the  far-streaming  brightness 
Seen  through  the  opening  gates  in  the  heart  of 

the  heavenly  city,  — 

Stealthily  through  the  harking  woods  the  lengthen- 
ing shadows 
Chased  the  wild  things  to  their  nests,  and  the 

twilight  died  into  darkness. 

Now  the  four  great  pyres  that  were  placed 
there  to  light  the  encampment, 

High  on  platforms  raised  above  the  people,  were 
kindled. 

Flaming  aloof,  as  it  were  the  pillar  by  night  in  the 
Desert 

Fell  their  crimson  light  on  the  lifted  orbs  of  the 
preachers, 

Fell  on  the  withered  brows  of  the  old  men,  and 
Israel's  mothers, 

Fell  on  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  the  earnest  devo- 
tion of  manhood, 


38  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 

Fell  on  the  anguish  and  hope  in  the  tearful  eyes 
of  the  mourners. 

Flaming  aloof,  it  stirred  the  sleep  of  the  luminous 
maples 

With  warm  summer-dreams,  and  faint,  luxurious 
languor. 

Near  the  four  great  pyres  the  people  closed  in  a 
circle, 

In  then*  midst  the  mourners,  and,  praying  with 
them,  the  exhorters, 

And  on  the  skirts  of  the  circle  the  unrepentant 
and  scorners,  — 

Ever  fewer  and  sadder,  and  drawn  to  the  place  of 
the  mourners, 

One  after  one,  by  the  prayers  and  tears  of  the 
brethren  and  sisters, 

And  by  the  Spirit  of  God,  that  was  mightily  striv- 
ing within  them, 

Till  at  the  last  alone  stood  Louis  Lebeau,  uncon- 
verted. 

Louis  Lebeau,  the  boatman,  the  trapper,  the 
hunter,  the  fighter, 

From  the  unlucky  French  of  Gallipolis  he  de- 
scended, 

Heir  to  Old  World  want  and  New  World  love  of 
adventure. 


Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion.  39 

Vague  was  the  life  he  led,  and  vague  and  gro- 
tesque were  the  rumors 
Through  which  he  loomed  on  the  people,  —  the 

hero  of  mythical  hearsay, 
Quick  of  hand  and  of  heart,  impatient,  generous, 

Western, 
Taking  the  thought  of  the  young  in  secret  love 

and  in  envy. 
Not   less  the  elders  shook  their  heads  and  held 

him  for  outcast, 
Reprobate,  roving,  ungodly,  infidel,  worse  than  a 

Papist, 
With  his  whispered  fame  of  lawless  exploits  at  St. 

Louis, 
Wild  affrays  and  loves  with  the  half-breeds  out  on 

the  Osage, 
Brawls  at  New  Orleans,  and  all  the  towns  on  the 

rivers, 
All    the    godless    towns   of    the    many-ruffianed 

rivers. 
Only  she  who  loved  him  the  best  of  all,  in  her 

loving 
Knew  him  the  best  of  all,  and  other  than  that  of 

the  rumors. 

Daily  she  prayed  for  him,  with  conscious  and  ten- 
der effusion, 
That  the  Lord  would  convert  him.     But  when  her 

father  forbade  him 


40  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 

Unto  her  thought,  she  denied  him,  and  likewise 

held  him  for  outcast, 
Turned  her  eyes  when  they  met,  and  would  not 

speak,  though  her  heart  broke. 

Bitter  and  brief  his  logic  that  reasoned  from 

wrong  unto  error : 
"This  is  their  praying  and   singing,"  he   said, 

"that  makes  you  reject  me, — 
You  that  were  kind  to  me  once.    But  I  think  my 

fathers'  religion, 
With  a  light  heart  in  the  breast  and  a  friendly 

priest  to  absolve  one, 

Better  than  all   these  conversions  that  only  be- 
wilder and  vex  me, 
And  that  have  made  men  so  hard  and  women 

fickle  and  cruel. 
Well,  then,  pray  for  my  soul,  since  you  would  not 

have  spoken  to  save  me,  — 
Yes ;  for  I  go  from  these  saints  to  my  brethren 

and  sisters,  the  sinners.'1 
Spoke  and  went,  while  her   faint  lips  fashioned 

unuttered  entreaties,  — 
Went,  and  came  again  in  a  year  at  the  time  of 

the  meeting, 
Haggard  and  wan  of  face,  and  wasted  with  passion 

and  sorrow. 


Louis  Lebeads  Conversion.  41 

Dead  in  his  eyes  was  the  careless  smile  of  old, 
and  its  phantom 

Haunted  his  lips  in  a  sneer  of  restless,  incredulous 
mocking. 

Day  by  day  he  came  to  the  outer  skirts  of  the 
circle, 

Dwelling  on  her,  where  she  knelt  by  the  white- 
haired  exhorter,  her  father, 

With  his  hollow  looks,  and  never  moved  from  his 
silence. 

Now,  where  he  stood  alone,  the  last  of  impeni- 
tent sinners, 
Weeping,  old  friends  and  comrades  came  to  him 

out  of  the  circle, 
And  with  their  tears  besought  him  to  hear  what 

the  Lord  had  done  for  them. 
Ever  he  shook  them  off,  not  roughly,  nor  smiled 

at  their  transports. 
Then  the  preachers  spoke  and  painted  the  terrors 

of  Judgment, 
And  of  the  bottomless  pit,  and  the  flames  of  hell 

everlasting. 
Still  and  dark  he  stood,  and  neither  listened  nor 

heeded ; 
But  when  the  fervent  voice  of  the  white-haired 

exhorter  was  lifted, 


42  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 

Fell  his  brows  in  a  scowl  of  fierce  and  scornful 

rejection. 
"  Lord,  let  this  soul  be  saved ! "  cried  the  fervent 

voice  of  the  old  man ; 
"  For  that  the  Shepherd  rejoiceth  more  truly  for 

one  that  hath  wandered, 
And  hath  been  found  again,  than  for  all  the 

others  that  strayed  not." 

Out  of  the  midst  of  the  people,  a  woman  old 

and  decrepit, 
Tremulous  through  the  light,  and  tremulous  into 

the  shadow, 
Wavered  toward  him  with  slow,  uncertain  paces 

of  palsy, 
Laid  her  quivering  hand  on  his  arm  and  brokenly 

prayed  him : 
"  Louis  Lebeau,  I  closed  in  death  the  eyes  of  your 

mother. 
On  my  breast  she  died,  in  prayer  for  her  fatherless 

children, 
That  they  might  know  the  Lord,  and  follow  him 

always,  and  serve  him. 
0,  I  conjure  you,  my  son,  by  the  name  of  your 

mother  in  glory, 
Scorn  not  the  grace  of  the  Lord ! "    As  when  q 

summer-noon's  tempest 


Louis  Lebeau' s  Conversion.  43 

Breaks  in  one  swift  gush  of  rain,  then  ceases  and 

gathers 
Darker  and  gloomier  yet  on  the  lowering  front  of 

the  heavens, 
So  broke  his  mood  in  tears,  as  he  soothed  her,  and 

stilled  her  entreaties, 
And  so  he  turned  again  with  his  clouded  looks  to 

the  people. 

Vibrated  then  from  the  hush  the   accents  of 

mournfullest  pity,  — 
His  who  was  gifted  in  speech,  and  the  glow  of  the 

fires  illumined 
All  his  pallid  aspect  with  sudden  and  marvellous 

splendor  : 
"  Louis  Lebeau,"  he  spake,   "  I  have  known  you 

and  loved  you  from  childhood  ; 
Still,  when  the  others  blamed   you,  I  took  your 

part,  for  I  knew  you. 
Louis  Lebeau,  my  brother,  I  thought  to  meet  you 

in  heaven, 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  who  is  gone  to  heaven 

before  us, 
Brothers  through   her   dear   love  !   I  trusted  to 

greet  you  and  lead  you 
Up  from  the  brink  of  the  River  unto  the  gates  of 

the  City. 


44  Louis  Lebeavfs  Conversion. 

Lo  !  my  years  shall  be  few  on  the  earth.     0  my 

brother, 
If  I  should  die  before  you  had  known  the  mercy 

of  Jesus, 
Yea,  I  think  it  would  sadden  the  hope  of  glory 

within  me ! " 

Neither  yet  had  the  will  of  the  sinner  yielded 

an  answer ; 
But  from  his  lips  there  broke  a  cry  of  unspeakable 

anguish, 
Wild  and  tierce  and  shrill,  as  if  some  demon  within 

him 
Rent  his  soul  with  the  ultimate  pangs  of  fiendish 

possession ; 
And  with  the  outstretched   arms  of  bewildered 

imploring  toward  them, 
Death-white  unto  the  people  he  turned  his  face 

from  the  darkness. 

Out  of  the  sedge  by  the  creek  a  flight  of  clam- 
orous killdees 

Rose  from  their  timorous  sleep  with  piercing  and 
iterant  challenge, 

Wheeled  in  the  starlight,  and  fled  away  into  dis- 
tance and  silence. 

White  in  the  vale  lay  the  tents,  and  beyond  them 
glided  the  river, 


Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion.  45 

Where  the  broadhorn  *  drifted  slow  at  the  will  of 

the  current, 
And  where  the  boatman  listened,  and  knew  not 

how,  as  he  listened, 
Something  touched  through  the  years  the  old  lost 

hopes  of  his  childhood,  — 
Only  his  sense  was  filled  with  low,  monotonous 

murmurs, 
As  of  a  faint-heard  prayer,  that  was  chorused  with 

deeper  responses. 

Not  with  the  rest  was  lifted  her  voice  in  the 

fervent  responses, 
But  in  her  soul  she  prayed  to  Him  that  heareth 

in  secret, 
Asking  for  light  and  for  strength  to  learn  his  will 

and  to  do  it : 
"  0,  make  me  clear  to  know  if  the  hope  that  rises 

within  me 
Be  not  part  of  a  love  unmeet  for  me  here,  and 

forbidden ! 
So,  if  it  be  not  that,  make  me  strong  for  the  evil 

entreaty 
Of  the  days  that  shall  bring  me  question  of  self 

and  reproaches, 

*  The  old-fashioned  flatboats  were  so  called. 


46  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 

When  the  unrighteous  shall  mock,  and  my  breth- 
ren and  sisters  shall  doubt  me  ! 
Make  me  worthy  to  know  thy  will,  my  Savior, 

and  do  it ! " 
In  her  pain  she  prayed,  and  at  last,  through  her 

mute  adoration, 
Rapt  from  all  mortal  presence,  and  in  her  rapture 

uplifted, 
Glorified  she  rose,  and  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 

people, 
Looking  on  all  with  the  still,  unseeing  eyes  of 

devotion,  — 
Vague,  and  tender,  and  sweet,  as  the  eyes  of  the 

dead,  when  wo  dream  them 
Living  and  looking  on  us,  but  they  cannot  speak, 

and  we  cannot,  — 
Knowing  only  the  peril  that  threatened  his  soul's 

unrepentance, 
Knowing  only  the  fear  and  error  and  wrong  that 

withheld  him, 
Thinking,  "  In  doubt  of  me,  his  soul  had  perished 

forever ! " 
Touched  with  no  feeble  shame,  but  trusting  her 

power  to  save  him, 
Through  the  circle  she  passed,  and  straight  to  the 

side  of  her  lover, 
Took  his  hand  in  her  own,  and  mutely  implored 

him  an  instant, 


Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion.  47 

Answering,  giving,  forgiving,  confessing,  beseech- 
ing him  all  things ; 

Drew  him  then  with  her,  and  passed  once  more 
through  the  circle 

Unto  her  place,  and  knelt  with  him  there  by  the 
side  of  her  father, 

Trembling  as  women  tremble  who  greatly  venture 
and  triumph,  — 

But  in  her  innocent  breast  was  the  saint's  sub- 
lime exultation. 

So  was  Louis  converted;  and  though  the  lips 

of  the  scomers 
Spared  not  in  after  years  the   subtle  taunt  and 

derision 
(What  time,  meeker  grown,  his  heart   held  his 

hand  from  its  answer), 
JSTot  the  less  lofty  and  pure  her  love  and  her  faith 

that  had  saved  him, 
Not  the  less  now  discerned  was  her  inspiration 

from  heaven 
By  the   people,    that   rose,   and   embracing  and 

weeping  together, 
Poured  forth  their  jubilant  songs  of  victory  and 

of  thanksgiving, 
Till  from  the  embers  leaped  the  dying  flame  to 

behold  them, 


48  Louis  Lebeau's  Conversion. 

And  the  hills  of  the  river  were  filled  with  rever- 
berant echoes,  — 

Echoes  that  out  of  the  years  and  the  distance  stole 
to  me  hither, 

While  I  moved  unwilled  in  the  mellow  warmth  of 
the  weather ; 

Echoes  that  mingled  and  fainted  and  fell  with  the 
fluttering  murmurs 

In  the  hearts  of  the  hushing  bells,  as  from  island 
to  island 

Swooned  the  sound  on  the  wide  lagoons  into  pal- 
pitant silence. 


Caprice.  49 


CAPRICE. 


SHE  hung  the  cage  at  the  window : 
"  If  he  goes  by,"  she  said, 
"  He  will  hear  my  robin  singing, 

And  when  he  lifts  his  head, 
I  shall  be  sitting  here  to  sew, 
And  he  will  bow  to  me,  I  know." 

The  robin  sang  a  love-sweet  song, 
The  young  man  raised  his  head ; 

The  maiden  turned  away  and  blushed  : 
"  I  am  a  fool ! "  she  said, 

And  went  on  broidering  in  silk 

A  pink-eyed  rabbit,  white  as  milk. 

ii. 

The  young  man  loitered  slowly 

By  the  house  three  times  that  day ; 

She  took  her  bird  from  the  window  : 
"  He  need  not  look  this  way." 

She  sat  at  her  piano  long, 

And  sighed,  and  played  a  death-sad  song. 


50  Caprice. 

But  when  the  day  was  done,  she  said, 
"  I  wish  that  he  would  come  ! 

Remember,  Mary,  if  he  calls 
To-night  —  I'm  not  at  home." 

So  when  he  rang,  she  went  —  the  elf!  — 

She  went  and  let  him  in  herself. 

IIL 

They  sang  full  long  together 

Their  songs  love-sweet,  death-sad  ; 

The  robin  woke  from  his  slumber, 
And  rang  out,  clear  and  glad. 

"  Now  go  !  "  she  coldly  said ;  "  't  is  late ; " 

And  followed  him  —  to  latch  the  gate. 

He  took  the  rosebud  from  her  hair, 
While,  "  You  shall  not !  "  she  said  ; 

He  closed  her  hand  within  his  own, 
And,  while  her  tongue  forbade, 

Her  will  was  darkened  in  the  eclipse 

Of  blinding  love  upon  his  lips. 


Sweet  Clover.  51 


SWEET  CLOVER. 

". . . .  My  letters  back  to  me." 

I. 

T  KNOW  they  won  the  faint  perfume, 
J-  That  to  their  faded  pages  clings, 

From  gloves,  and  handkerchiefs,  and  things 
Kept  in  the  soft  and  scented  gloom 

Of  some  mysterious  box  —  poor  leaves 
Of  summer,  now  as  sere  and  dead 
As  any  leaves  of  summer  shed 

From  crimson  boughs  when  autumn  grieves  ! 

The  ghost  of  fragrance  !     Yet  I  thrill 
All  through  with  such  delicious  pain 
Of  soul  and  sense,  to  breathe  again 

The  sweet  that  haunted  memory  still. 

And  under  these  December  skies, 
As  bland  as  May's  in  other  climes, 
I  move,  and  muse  my  idle  rhymes 

And  subtly  sentimentalize. 


52  Sweet  Clover. 

I  hear  the  music  that  was  played,  — 

The  songs  that  silence  knows  by  heart !  — 
I  see  sweet  burlesque  feigning  art, 

The  careless  grace  that  curved  and  swayed 

Through  dances  and  through  breezy  walks  ; 
I  feel  once  more  the  eyes  that  smiled, 
And  that  dear  presence  that  beguiled 

The  pauses  of  the  foolish  talks, 

When  this  poor  phantom  of  perfume 
Was  the  Sweet  Clover's  living  soul, 
And  breathed  from  her  as  if  it  stole, 

Ah,  heaven !  from  her  heart  in  bloom ! 


ii. 

We  have  not  many  ways  with  pain  : 
We  weep  weak  tears,  or  else  we  laugh  ; 
I  doubt,  not  less  the  cup  we  quaff, 

And  tears  and  scorn  alike  are  vain. 

But  let  me  live  my  quiet  life ; 

I  will  not  vex  my  calm  with  grief, 
I  only  know  the  pang  was  brief, 

And  there  an  end  of  hope  and  strife. 


Sweet  Clover.  53 

And  thou  1     I  put  the  letters  by  : 

In  years  the  sweetness  shall  not  pass  ; 
More  than  the  perfect  blossom  was 

I  count  its  lingering  memory. 

Alas  !  with  Time  dear  Love  is  dead, 

And  not  with  Fate.     And  who  can  guess 
How  weary  of  our  happiness 

We  might  have  been  if  we  were  wed  ? 


Venice, 


54  Royal  Portrait*. 


THE  ROYAL  PORTRAITS. 

(AT   LUDWIG8HOF.) 


/CONFRONTING  each  other  the  pictures  stare 
V_y  Into  each  other's  sleepless  eyes  ; 

And  the  daylight  into  the  darkness  dies, 
From  year  to  year  in  the  palace  there  : 

But  they  watch  and  guard  that  no  device 
Take  either  one  of  them  unaware. 

Their  majesties  the  king  and  the  queen, 
The  parents  of  the  reigning  prince  : 
Both  put  off  royalty  many  years  since, 

With  life  and  the  gifts  that  have  always  been 
Given  to  kings  from  God,  to  evince 

His  sense  of  the  mighty  over  the  mean. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  like  the  face 

Of  the  king ;  it  is  something  fat  and  red  ; 
And  the  neck  that  lifts  the  royal  head 

Is  thick  and  coarse ;  and  a  scanty  grace 
Dwells  in  the  dull  blue  eyea  that  are  laid 

Sullenly  on  the  queen  in  her  place. 


Royal  Portraits.  55 

He  must  have  been  a  king  in  his  day 

T  were  well  to  pleasure  in  work  and  sport  : 
One  of  the  heaven-anointed  sort 

^"ho  ruled  his  people  with  iron  sway, 

And  knew  that,  through  good  and  evil  report, 

God  meant  him  to  rule  and  them  to  obey. 

There  are  many  other  likenesses 

Of  the  king  in  his  royal  palace  there  ; 
You  find  him  depicted  everywhere,  — 

In  his  robes  of  state,  in  his  hunting-dress, 
In  his  flowing  wig,  in  his  powdered  hair,  — 

A  king  in  all  of  them,  none  the  less  ; 

But  most  himself  in  this  on  the  wall 
Over  against  his  consort,  whose 
Laces,  and  hoops,  and  high-heeled  shoes 

Make  her  the  finest  lady  of  all 

The  queens  or  courtly  dames  you  choose, 

In  the  ancestral  portrait  halL 

A  glorious  blonde  :  a  luxury 

Of  luring  blue  and  wanton  gold, 

t3f  blanched  rose  and  crimson  bold, 
Of  lines  that  flow  voluptuously 

In  tender,  languorous  curves  to  fold 
Her  form  in  perfect  symmetry. 


56  Royal  Portraits. 

She  might  nave  been  false.     Of  her  withered  dust 
There  scarcely  would  be  enough  to  write 
Her  guilt  in  now ;  and  the  dead  have  a  right 

To  our  lenient  doubt  if  not  to  our  trust : 
So  if  the  truth  cannot  make  her  white, 

Let  us  be  as  merciful  as  we  —  must. 

IL 

The  queen  died  first,  the  queen  died  young, 
But  the  king  was  very  old  when  he  died, 
Rotten  with  license,  and  lust,  and  pride ; 

And  the  usual  Virtues  came  and  hung 

Their  cypress  wreaths  on  his  tomb,  and  wide 

Throughout  his  kingdom  his  praise  was  sung. 

How  the  queen  died  is  not  certainly  known, 
And  faithful  subjects  are  all  forbid 
To  speak  of  the  murder  which  some  one  did 

One  night  while  she  slept  in  the  dark  alone : 
History  keeps  the  story  hid, 

And  Fear  only  tells  it  in  undertone. 

Up  from  your  startled  feet  aloof, 

In  the  famous  Echo-Room,  with  a  bound 
Leaps  the  echo,  and  round  and  round 

Beating  itself  against  the  roof,  — 

A  horrible,  gasping,  shuddering  sound,  — 

Dies  ere  its  terror  can  utter  proof 


Royal  Portraits.  57 

Of  that  it  knows.     A  door  is  fast, 
And  none  is  suffered  to  enter  there. 
His  sacred  majesty  could  not  bear 

To  look  at  it  toward  the  last, 

As  he  grew  very  old.     It  opened  where 

The  queen  died  young  so  many  years  past. 

in. 
How  the  queen  died  is  not  certainly  known ; 

But  in  the  palace's  solitude 

A  harking  dread  and  horror  brood, 
And  a  silence,  as  if  a  mortal  groan 

Had  been  hushed  the  moment  before,  and  would 
Break  forth  again  when  you  were  gone. 

The  present  king  has  never  dwelt 

In  the  desolate  palace.     From  year  to  year 
In  the  wide  and  stately  garden  drear 

The  snows  and  the  snowy  blossoms  melt 
Unheeded,  and  a  ghastly  fear 

Through  all  the  shivering  leaves  is  felt. 

By  night  the  gathering  shadows  creep 
Along  the  dusk  and  hollow  halls, 
And  the  slumber-broken  palace  calls 

With  stifled  moans  from  its  nightmare  sleep  \ 
And  then  the  ghostly  moonlight  falls 

Athwart  the  darkness  brown  and  deep. 


58  Royal  Portraits. 

At  early  dawn  the  light  wind  sighs, 
And  through  the  desert  garden  blows 
The  wasted  sweetness  of  the  rose ; 

At  noon  the  feverish  sunshine  lies 

Sick  in  the  walks.     But  at  evening's  close, 

When  the  last,  long  rays  to  the  windows  rise, 

And  with  many  a  blood-red,  wrathful  streak 
Pierce  through  the  twilight  glooms  that  blur 
His  cruel  vigilance  and  her 

Regard,  they  light  fierce  looks  that  wreak 
A  hopeless  hate  that  cannot  stir, 

A  voiceless  hate  that  cannot  speak 

In  the  awful  calm  of  the  sleepless  eyea ; 
And  as  if  she  saw  her  murderer  glare 
On  her  face,  and  he  the  white  despair 

Of  his  victim  kindle  in  wild  surmise, 

Confronted  the  conscious  pictures  stare,  — 

And  their  secret  back  into  darkness  dies. 


TJie  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  59 


THE  FAITHFUL  OF  THE  GONZAGA.* 


"TpEDERIGO,  the  son  of  the  Marquis, 
JP     Downcast,  through  the  garden  goes  : 
He  is  hurt  with  the  grace  of  the  lily, 
And  the  beauty  of  the  rose. 

For  what  is  the  grace  of  the  lily 
-  But  her  own  slender  grace  ? 
And  what  is  the  rose's  beauty 
But  the  beauty  of  her  face  ]  — 

Who  sits  beside  her  window 
Waiting  to  welcome  him, 

*  The  author  of  this  ballad  has  added  a  thread  of  evident 
love-story  to  a  most  romantic  incident  of  the  history  of  Mantua, 
which  occurred  in  the  fifteenth  century.  He  relates  the  inci- 
dent so  nearly  as  he  found  it  in  the  Cronache  Montovane,  that 
he  is  ashamed  to  say  how  little  his  invention  has  been  employed 
in  it.  The  hero  of  the  story,  Federigo,  became  the  third  Mar- 
quis of  Mantua,  and  was  a  prince  greatly  beloved  and  honored 
by  his  subjects- 


60  The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga. 

That  comes  so  lothly  toward  her 
With  his  visage  sick  and  dim. 

"  Ah  !  lily,  I  come  to  break  thee  ! 

Ah  !  rose,  a  bitter  rain 
Of  tears  shall  beat  thy  light  out 

That  thou  never  burn  again  !  " 

ii. 
Federigo,  the  son  of  the  Marquis, 

Takes  the  lady  by  the  hand  : 
"  Thou  must  bid  me  God-speed  on  a  journey, 

For  I  leave  my  native  land. 

"  From  Mantua  to-morrow 

I  go,  a  banished  man  ; 
Make  me  glad  for  truth  and  love's  sake 

Of  my  father's  curse  and  ban. 

"  Our  quarrel  has  left  my  mother 

Like  death  upon  the  floor  ; 
And  I  come  from  a  furious  presence 

I  never  i^iall  enter  more. 


"  I  would  not  wed  the  woman 
He  had  chosen  for  my  bride, 

For  my  heart  had  been  before  him, 
With  his  statecraft  and  his  pride. 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  61 

"  I  swore  to  him  by  my  princehood 

In  my  love  I  would  be  free  ; 
And  I  swear  to  thee  by  my  manhood, 

I  love  no  one  but  thee. 

"  Let  the  Duke  of  Bavaria  marry 

His  daughter  to  whom  he  will : 
There  where  my  love  was  given 

My  word  shall  be  faithful  still. 

"  There  are  six  true  hearts  will  follow 

My  truth  wherever  I  go, 
And  thou  equal  truth  wilt  keep  me 

In  welfare  and  in  woe." 

The  maiden  answered  him  nothing 

Of  herself,  but  his  words  again 
Came  back  through  her  lips  like  an  echo 

From  an  abyss  of  pain  ; 

And  vacantly  repeating 

"  In  welfare  and  in  woe," 
Like  a  dream  from  the  heart  of  fever 

From  her  arms  she  felt  him  go. 

in. 

Out  of  Mantua's  gate  at  daybreak 
Seven  comrades  wander  forth 


62  The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga. 

On  a  path  that  leads  at  their  humor, 
East,  west,  or  south,  or  north. 

The  prince's  laugh  rings  lightly, 

"  What  road  shall  we  take  from  home  1" 

And  they  answer,  "  We  never  shall  lose  it 
If  we  take  the  road  to  Rome." 

And  with  many  a  jest  and  banter 
The  comrades  keep  their  way, 

Journeying  out  of  the  twilight 
Forward  into  the  day, 

When  they  are  aware  beside  them 

Goes  a  pretty  minstrel  lad, 
With  a  shy  and  downward  aspect, 

That  is  neither  sad  nor  glad. 

Over  his  slender  shoulder, 

His  mandolin  was  slung, 
And  around  its  chords  the  treasure 

Of  his  golden  tresses  hung. 

Spoke  one  of  the  seven  companions, 
"  Little  minstrel,  whither  away  1  *  — 

"  With  seven  true-hearted  comrades 
On  their  journey,  if  I  may." 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  63 

Spoke  one  of  the  seven  companions, 
"  If  our  way  be  hard  and  long  1 "  — 

"  I  will  lighten  it  with  my  music 
And  shorten  it  with  my  song." 

Spoke  one  of  the  seven  companions, 

"  But  what  are  the  songs  thou  know'st  ? "  — 

"  0,  I  know  many  a  ditty, 
But  this  I  sing  the  most : 

"  How  once  was  an  humble  maiden 

Beloved  of  a  great  lord's  son, 
That  for  her  sake  and  his  troth's  sake 

Was  banished  and  undone. 

"  And  forth  of  his  father's  city 

He  went  at  break  of  day, 
And  the  maiden  softly  followed 

Behind  him  on  the  way 

"  In  the  figure  of  a  minstrel, 

And  prayed  him  of  his  love, 
*  Let  me  go  with  thee  and  serve  thee 

Wherever  thou  may'st  rove. 

"  '  For  if  thou  goest  in  exile 
I  rest  banished  at  home, 


64:  Tlie  Faithful  of  the  Gvnzaga. 

And  where  thou  wauderest  with  thee 
My  fears  in  anguish  roam, 

" '  Besetting  thy  path  with  perils, 
Making  thee  hungry  and  cold, 

Filling  thy  heart  with  trouble 
And  heaviness  untold. 

" '  But  let  me  go  beside  thee, 
And  banishment  shall  be 

Honor,  and  riches,  and  country, 
And  home  to  thee  and  me  ! '  " 

Down  falls  the  minstrel-maiden 

Before  the  Marquis'  son, 
And  the  six  true-hearted  comrades 

Bow  round  them  every  one. 

Federigo,  the  son  of  the  Marquis, 
From  its  scabbard  draws  his  sword : 

"  Now  swear  by  the  honor  and  fealty 
Ye  bear  your  friend  and  lord, 

"  That  whenever,  and  wherever, 

As  long  as  ye  have  life, 
Ye  will  honor  and  serve  this  lady 

As  ye  would  your  prince's  wife  !  " 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  65 

IV. 

Over  the  broad  expanses 

Of  garlanded  Lombardy, 
Where  the  gentle  vines  are  swinging 

In  the  orchards  from  tree  to  tree  ; 

Through  Padua  from  Verona, 

From  the  sculptured  gothic  town, 

Carved  from  ruin  upon  ruin, 
And  ancienter  than  renown ; 

Through  Padua  from  Verona 
To  fair  Venice,  where  she  stands 

With  her  feet  on  subject  waters, 
Lady  of  many  lands  ; 

From  Venice  by  sea  to  Ancona ; 

From  Ancona  to  the  west ; 
Climbing  many  a  gardened  hillside 

And  many  a  castled  crest ; 

Through  valleys  dim  with  the  twilight 

Of  their  gray  olive  trees ; 
Over  plains  that  swim  with  harvests 

Like  golden  noonday  seas ; 

Whence  the  lofty  campanili 
Like  the  masts  of  ships  arise, 


66  The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga. 

And  like  a  fleet  at  anchor 
Under  them,  the  village  lies ; 

To  Florence  beside  her  Arno, 

In  her  many-marbled  pride, 
Crowned  with  infamy  and  glory 

By  the  sons  she  has  denied  ; 

To  pitiless  Pisa,  where  never 

Since  the  anguish  of  Ugolin 
The  moon  in  the  Tower  of  Famine  t 

Fate  so  dread  as  his  hath  seen ; 

Out  through  the  gates  of  Pisa 

To  Livorno  on  her  bay, 
To  Genoa  and  to  Naples 

The  comrades  hold  their  way, 

Past  the  Guelph  in  his  town  beleaguered, 
Past  the  fortressed  Ghibelline, 

Through  lands  that  reek  with  slaughter, 
Treason,  and  shame,  and  sin ; 

f  "  Breve  pertngio  dentro  dalla  Muda, 
La  qua!  per  me  ha  11  titol  della  fame 
E  in  che  conviene  ancor  ch'altri  si  chiada, 

M'avea  raostrato  per  lo  suo  forame 

Pro  lune  gia."  DAHTB,  V Inferno. 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  67 

By  desert,  by  sea,  by  city, 

High  hill-cope  and  temple-dome, 

Through  pestilence,  hunger,  and  horror, 
Upon  the  road  to  Home  ; 

While  every  land  behind  them 

Forgets  them  as  they  go, 
And  in  Mantua  they  are  remembered 

As  is  the  last  year's  snow  ; 

But  the  Marchioness  goes  to  her  chamber 

Day  after  day  to  weep,  — 
For  the  changeless  heart  of  a  mother 

The  love  of  a  son  must  keep,       ._ 

The  Marchioness  weeps  in  her  chamber 

Over  tidings  that  come  to  her 
Of  the  exiles  she  seeks,  by  letter 

And  by  lips  of  messenger, 

Broken  hints  of  their  sojourn  and  absence, 
Comfortless,  vague,  and  slight,  — 

Like  feathers  wafted  backwards 
From  passage  birds  in  flight.  J 


\  "  As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  its  flight." 


68  The  Faithful  of  the  Gowaga. 

The  tale  of  a  drunken  sailor, 
In  whose  ship  they  went  to  sea ; 

A  traveller's  evening  story 
At  a  village  hostelry, 

Of  certain  comrades  sent  him 
By  our  Lady,  of  her  grace, 

To  save  his  life  from  robbers 
In  a  lonely  desert  place  ; 

Word  from  the  monks  of  a  convent 
Of  gentle  comrades  that  lay 

One  stormy  night  at  their  convent, 
And  passed  with  the  storm  at  day ; 

The  long  parley  of  a  peasant 
That  sold  them  wine  and  food, 

The  gossip  of  a  shepherd 

That  guided  them  through  a  wood ; 

A  boatman's  talk  at  the  ferry 
Of  a  river  where  they  crossed, 

And  as  if  they  had  sunk  in  the  current 
All  trace  of  them  was  lost ; 

And  so  is  an  end  of  tidings 
But  never  an  end  of  tears, 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  69 

Of  secret  and  friendless  sorrow 
Through  blank  and  silent  years. 

v. 

To  the  Marchioness  in  her  chamber 

Sends  word  a  messenger, 
Newly  come  from  the  land  of  Naples, 

Praying  for  speech  with  her. 

The  messenger  stands  before  her, 

A  minstrel  slender  and  wan  : 
"  In  a  village  of  my  country 

Lies  a  Mantuan  gentleman, 

"  Sick  of  a  smouldering  fever, 

Of  sorrow  and  poverty  j 
And  no  one  in  all  that  country 

Knows  his  title  or  degree. 

"  But  six  true  Mantuan  peasants, 

Or  nobles,  as  some  men  say, 
Watch  by  the  sick  man's  bedside, 

And  toil  for  him,  night  and  day, 

"Hewing,  digging,  reaping,  sowing, 
Bearing  burdens,  and  far  and  nigh 

Begging  for  him  on  the  highway 
Of  the  strangers  that  pass  by ; 


70  The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga. 

"  And  they  look  whenever  you  meet  them 

Like  broken-hearted  men, 
And  I  heard  that  the  sick  man  would  not 

If  he  could,  be  well  again  ; 

"For  they  say  that  he  for  love's  sake 

Was  gladly  banished, 
But  she  for  whom  he  was  banished 

Is  worse  to  him,  now,  than  dead,  — 

"  A  recreant  to  his  sorrow, 

A  traitress  to  his  woe." 
From  her  place  the  Marchioness  rises, 

The  minstrel  turns  to  go. 

But  fast  by  the  hand  she  takes  him,  — 
His  hand  in  her  clasp  is  cold,  — 

"  If  gold  may  be  thy  guerdon 
Thou  shalt  not  lack  for  gold ; 

"  And  if  the  love  of  a  mother 

Can  bless  thee  for  that  thou  hast  done, 
Thou  shalt  stay  and  be  his  brother, 

Thou  shalt  stay  and  be  my  son." 

"  Nay,  my  lady,"  answered  the  minstrel, 
And  his  face  is  deadly  pale, 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  71 

"  Nay,  this  must  not  be,  sweet  lady, 
But  let  my  words  prevail. 

"Let  me  go  now  from  your  presence, 

And  I  will  come  again, 
When  you  stand  with  your  son  beside  you, 

And  be  your  servant  then/' 

VI. 

At  the  feet  of  the  Marquis  Gonzaga 

Kneels  his  lady  on  the  floor ; 
"  Lord,  grant  me  before  I  ask  it 

The  thing  that  I  implore." 

"  So  it  be  not  of  that  ingrate.  "  — 

"  Nay,  lord,  it  is  of  him." 
'  Neath  the  stormy  brows  of  the  Marquis 

His  eyes  are  tender  and  dim. 

"  He  lies  sick  of  a  fever  in  Naples, 

Near  unto  death,  as  they  tell, 
In  his  need  and  pain  forsaken 

By  the  wanton  he  loved  so  well. 

"  Now  send  for  him  and  forgive  him, 

If  ever  thou  loved' st  me, 
Now  send  for  him  and  forgive  him 

As  God  shall  be  good  to  thee." 


72  The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga. 

"  Well  so,  —  if  he  turn  in  repentance 
And  bow  himself  to  my  will ; 

That  the  high-born  lady  I  chose  him 
May  be  my  daughter  stilL" 

vn. 

In  Mantua  there  is  feasting 

For  the  Marquis*  grace  to  his  son ; 

In  Mantua  there  is  rejoicing 

For  the  prince  come  back  to  his  own. 

The  pomp  of  a  wedding  procession 
Pauses  under  the  pillared  porch, 

With  silken  rustle  and  whisper, 
Before  the  door  of  the  church. 

In  the  midst,  Federigo  the  bridegroom 
Stands  with  his  high-born  bride ; 

The  six  true-hearted  comrades 
Are  three  on  either  side. 

The  bridegroom  is  gray  as  his  father, 
Where  they  stand  face  to  face, 

And  the  six  true-hearted  comrades 
Are  like  old  men  in  their  place. 

The  Marquis  takes  the  comrades 
And  kisses  them  one  by  one  : 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  73 

"  That  ye  were  fast  and  faithful 
And  better  than  I  to  my  son, 

"  Ye  shall  he  called  forever, 

In  the  sign  that  ye  were  so  true, 

The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga, 
And  your  sons  after  you." 

VIII. 

To  the  Marchioness  comes  a  courtier : 
"  I  am  prayed  to  bring  you  word 

That  the  minstrel  keeps  his  promise 
Who  brought  you  news  of  my  lord  ; 

"  And  he  waits  without  the  circle 

To  kiss  your  highness'  hand ; 
And  he  asks  no  gold  for  guerdon, 

But  before  he  leaves  the  land 

"He  craves  of  your  love  once  proffered 
That  you  suffer  him  for  reward, 

In  this  crowning  hour  of  his  glory, 
To  look  on  your  son,  my  lord." 

Through  the  silken  press  of  the  courtiers 

The  minstrel  faltered  in. 
His  claspM  hands  were  bloodless, 

His  face  was  white  and  thin ; 
4 


74  The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga. 

And  he  bent  his  knee  to  the  lady, 

But  of  her  love  and  grace 
To  her  heart  she  raised  him  and  kissed  him 

Upon  his  gentle  face. 

Turned  to  her  son  the  bridegroom, 

Turned  to  his  high-born  wife, 
"  I  give  you  here  for  your  brother 

Who  gave  back  my  son  to  life. 

"  For  this  youth  brought  me  news  from  Naples 

How  thou  layest  sick  and  poor, 
By  true  comrades  kept,  and  forsaken 

By  a  false  paramour. 

"  Wherefore  I  charge  you  love  him 

For  a  brother  that  is  my  son." 
The  comrades  turned  to  the  bridegroom 

In  silence  every  one. 

But  the  bridegroom  looked  on  the  minstrel 
With  a  visage  blank  and  changed, 

As  his  whom  the  sight  of  a  spectre 
From  his  reason  hath  estranged ; 

And  the  smiling  courtiers  near  them 
On  a  sudden  were  still  as  death  ; 


The  Faithful  of  the  Gonzaga.  75 

And,  subtly-stricken,  the  people 
Hearkened  and  held  their  breath 


With  an  awe  uncomprehended 

For  an  unseen  agony  :  — 
Who  is  this  that  lies  a- dying, 

With  her  head  on  the  prince's  knee  ? 

A  light  of  anguish  and  wonder 

Is  in  the  prince's  eye, 
"  0,  speak,  sweet  saint,  and  forgive  me, 

Or  I  cannot  let  thee  die  ! 

"  For  now  I  see  thy  hardness 
Was  softer  than  mortal  ruth, 

And  thy  heavenly  guile  was  whiter, 
My  saint,  than  martyr's  truth." 

She  speaks  not  and  she  moves  not, 
But  a  blessed  brightness  lies 

On  her  lips  in  their  silent  rapture 
And  her  tender  closed  eyes. 

Federigo,  the  son  of  the  Marquis, 

He  rises  from  his  knee  : 
"  Aye,  you  have  been  good,  my  father, 

To  them  that  were  good  to  me. 


76  Tkt  Faithful  of  the  Gomaga. 

"  You  have  given  them  honors  and  titles, 
But  here  lies  one  unknown  — 

Ah,  God  reward  her  in  heaven 

With  the  peace  he  gives  his  own  1 " 


The  First  Cricket.  77 


THE  FIRST  CRICKET. 

AH  me  !  is  it  then  true  that  the  year  has  waxed 
unto  waning, 
And  that  so  soon  must  remain  nothing  but  lapse 

and  decay,  — 

Earliest  cricket,  that  out  of  the  midsummer  mid- 
night complaining, 

All  the  faint  summer  in  me  takest  with  subtle 
dismay  1 

Though  thou  bringest  no  dream  of  frost  to  the 

flowers  that  slumber, 
Though  no  tree  for  its  leaves,  doomed  of  thy 

voice,  maketh  moan, 
Yet  with  th'  unconscious  earth's  boded   evil  my 

soul  thou  dost  cumber, 

And  in  the  year's  lost  youth  makest  me  still 
lose  my  own. 

Answerest  thou,  that  when  nights  of  December  are 

blackest  and  bleakest, 

And  when  the  fervid  grate  feigns  me  a  May  in 
my  room, 


78  The  First  Cricket. 

And   by  my  hearthstone  gay,  as  now  sad  in  my 

garden,  thou  creakest,  — 

Thou  wilt  again  give  me  all,  —  dew  and  fra- 
grance and  bloom  1 

Nay,  little  poet !  full  many  a  cricket  I  have  that 

is  willing, 
If  I  but  take  him  down  out  of  his  place  on  my 

shelf, 
Me  blither  lays  to  sing  than  the  blithest  known  to 

thy  shrilling, 

Full  of  the  rapture  of  life,  May,  morn,  hope,  and 
—  himself : 

Leaving  me  only  the  sadder;  for  never  one  of  my 

singers 
Lures  back  the  bee  to  his  feast,  calls  back  the 

bird  to  his  tree. 
Hast  thou  no  art  can  make  me  believe,  while  the 

summer  yet  lingers, 

Better  than   bloom  that  has  been  red  leaf  and 
sere  that  must  be  ? 


The  Mulberries.  79 


THE  MULBERKIES. 


ON  the  Bialto  Bridge  we  stand ; 
The  street  ebbs  under  and  makes  no  sound  ; 
But,  with  bargains  shYieked  on  every  hand, 
The  noisy  market  rings  around. 

"  Mulberries,  fine  mulberries,  here  !  " 
A  tuneful  voice,  —  and  light,  light  measure ; 

Though  I  hardly  should  count   these  mulberries 

dear, 
If  I  paid  three  times  the  price  for  my  pleasure. 

Brown  hands  splashed  with  mulberry  blood, 
The  basket  wreathed  with  mulberry  leaves 

Hiding  the  berries  beneath  them  ;  —  good  ! 
Let  us  take  whatever  the  young  rogue  gives. 

For  you  know,  old  friend,  I  have  n't  eaten 

A  mulberry  since  the  ignorant  joy 
Of  anything  sweet  in  the  mouth  could  sweeten 

All  this  bitter  world  for  a  boy. 


80  The  Mulberries. 

n. 

0,  I  mind  the  tree  in  the  meadow  stood 

By  the  road  near  the  hill :  when  I  clomb  aloof 

On  its  branches,  this  side  of  the  girdled  wood, 
I  could  see  the  top  of  our  cabin  roof. 

And,  looking  westward,  could  sweep  the  shores 
Of  the  river  where  we  used  to  swim    - 

Under  the  ghostly  sycamores, 

Haunting  the  waters  smooth  and  dim  ; 

And  eastward  athwart  the  pasture-lot 
And  over  the  milk-white  buckwheat  field 

I  could  see  the  stately  elm,  where  I  shot 
The  first  black  squirrel  I  ever  killed. 

And  southward  over  the  bottom-land 
I  could  see  the  mellow  breadths  of  farm 

From  the  river-shores  to  the  hills  expand, 
Clasped  in  the  curving  river's  arm. 

In  the  fields  we  set  our  guileless  snares 
For  rabbits  and  pigeons  and  wary  quails, 

Content  with  the  vaguest  feathers  and  hairs 
From  doubtful  wings  and  vanished  tails. 

And  in  the  blue  summer  afternoon 
We  used  to  sit  in  the  mulberry-tree : 


The  Mulberries.  81 

The  breaths  of  wind  that  remembered  June 
Shook  the  leaves  and  glittering  berries  free ; 

And  while  we  watched  the  wagons  go 

Across  the  river,  along  the  road, 
To  the  mill  above,  or  the  mill  below, 

With  horses  that  stooped  to  the  heavy  load, 

We  told  old  stories  and  made  new  plans, 
And  felt  our  hearts  gladden  within  us  again, 

For  we  did  not  dream  that  this  life  of  a  man's 
Could  ever  be  what  we  know  as  men. 

We  sat  so  still  that  the  woodpeckers  came 
And  pillaged  the  berries  overhead  ; 

From  his  log  the  chipmonk,  waxen  tame, 
Peered,  and  listened  to  what  we  said. 

in. 
One  of  us  long  ago  was  carried 

To  his  grave  on  the  hill  above  the  tree ; 
One  is  a  farmer  there,  and  married ; 

One  has  wandered  over  the  sea. 

And,  if  you  ask  me,  I  hardly  know 

Whether  I  'd  be  the  dead  or  the  clown,  — 

The  clod  above  or  the  clay  below,  — 
Or  this  listless  dust  by  fortune  blown 
4*  F 


82  The  Mulbenies. 

To  alien  lands.     For,  however  it  is, 

So  little  we  keep  with  us  in  life  : 
At  best  we  win  only  victories, 

Not  peace,  not  peace,  0  friend,  hi  this  strife. 

But  if  I  could  turn  from  the  long  defeat 
Of  the  little  successes  once  more,  and  be 

A  boy,  with  the  whole  wide  world  at  my  feet, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mulberry-tree,  — 

From  the  shame  of  the  squandered  chances,  the 
sleep 

Of  the  will  that  cannot  itself  awaken, 
From  the  promise  the  future  can  never  keep, 

From  the  fitful  purposes  vague  and  shaken,  — 

Then,  while  the  grasshopper  sang  out  shrill 
In  the  grass  beneath  the  blanching  thistle. 

And  the  afternoon  air,  with  a  tender  thrill, 
Harked  to  the  quail's  complaining  whistle,  — 

Ah  me  !  should  I  paint  the  morrows  again 

In  quite  the  colors  so  faint  to-day, 
And  with  the  imperial  mulberry's  stain 

Re-purple  life's  doublet  of  hodden-gray  1 

Know  again  the  losses  of  disillusion  ] 

For  the  sake  of  the  hope,  have  the  old  deceit  t  — 


The  Mulberries.  83 

In  spite  of  the  question's  bitter  infusion, 
Don't  you  find  these  mulberries  over-sweet  ? 

All  our  atoms  are  changed,  they  say ; 

And  the  taste  is  so  different  since  then ; 
We  live,  but  a  world  has  passed  away 

With  the  years  that  perished  to  make  us  men. 


84  Before  the  Gate. 


BEFORE  THE  GATE. 

rpHEY  gave  the  whole  long  day  to  idle  laughter, 
-*-    To  fitful  song  and  jest, 
To  moods  of  soberness  as  idle,  after. 
And  silences,  as  idle  too  as  the  rest. 

But  when  at  last  upon  their  way  returning, 

Taciturn,  late,  and  loath, 
Through  the  broad  meadow  in  the  sunset  burning, 

They  reached  the  gate,  one  fine  spell  hindered 
them  both. 

Her  heart  was  troubled  with  a  subtile  anguish 

Such  as  but  women  know 
That  wait,  and  lest  love  speak  or  speak  not  languish, 

And  what  they  would,  would  rather  they  would 
not  so; 

Till  he  said,  —  man-like  nothing  comprehending 

Of  all  the  wondrous  guile 

That  women  won  win  themselves  with,  and  bend- 
ing 

Eyes  of  relentless  asking  on  her  the  while,  — 


Before  the  Gate.  85 

"  Ah,  if  beyond  this  gate  the  path  united 

Our  steps  as  far  as  death, 
And  I  might  open  it !  —  "     His  voice,  affrighted 

At  its  own  daring,  faltered  under  his  breath. 

Then  she  —  whom  both  his   faith   and  fear   en- 
chanted 

Far  beyond  words  to  tell, 
Feeling  her  woman's  finest  wit  had  wanted 

The  art  he  had  that  knew  to  blunder  so  well  — 

Shyly  drew  near,  a  little  step,  and  mocking, 

"  Shall  we  not  be  too  late 
For  tea  1 "  she  said.     "  I  'm  quite  worn  out  with 

walking  : 

Yes,  thanks,  your  arm.     And  will  you  —  open 
the  gate  1 " 


86  Clement. 


CLEMENT. 


fTlHAT  time  of  year,  you  know,  when  the  sum- 

-L      mer,  beginning  to  sadden, 

Full-mooned  and  silver-misted,  glides  from  the 
heart  of  September, 

Mourned  by  disconsolate  crickets,  and  iterant 
grasshoppers,  crying 

All  the  still  nights  long,  from  the  ripened  abun- 
dance of  gardens ; 

Then,  ere  the  boughs  of  the  maples  are  mantled 
with  earliest  autumn, 

But  the  wind  of  autumn  breathes  from  the  or- 
chards at  nightfall, 

Full  of  winy  perfume  and  mystical  yearning  and 
languor; 

And  in  the  noonday  woods  you  hear  the  foraging 
squirrels, 

And  the  long,  crashing  fall  of  the  half-eaten  nut 
from  the  tree-top ; 

When  the  robins  are  mute,  and  the  yellow-birds, 
haunting  the  thistles, 

Cheep,  and  twitter,  and  flit  through  the  dusty 
lanes  and  the  loppings, 


Clement.  87 

When  the  pheasant   booms   from   your   stealthy 

foot  in  the  cornfield, 
And  the  wild-pigeons  feed,    few  and  shy,  in  the 

,     scoke-berry  bushes ; 
When  the  weary  land  lies  hushed,  like  a  seer  in  a 

vision, 
And  your  life  seems  but  the  dream  of  a  dream 

which  you  cannot  remember,  — 
Broken,  bewildering,  vague,  an  echo  that  answers 

to  nothing ! 
That  time  of  year,  you  know.     They  stood  by  the 

gate  in  the  meadow, 
Fronting  the  sinking  sun,  and  the  level  stream  of 

its  splendor 
Crimsoned  the  meadow-slope  and  woodland  with 

tenderest  sunset, 
Made  her  beautiful  face  like  the  luminous  face  of 

an  angel, 
Smote  through  the  pained  gloom  of  his  heart  like 

a  hurt  to  the  sense,  there. 
Languidly  clung  about  by  the  half-fallen  shawl, 

and  with  folded 
Hands,  that  held  a  few  sad  asters  :  "I  sigh  for 

this  idyl 
Lived  at  last  to  an  end ;  and,  looking  on  to  my 

prose-life," 
With  a  smile,  she  said,  and  a  subtle  derision  of 

manner. 


88  Clement. 

"Better  and  better  I  seem,  when  I  recollect  all 

that  has  happened 
Since  I  came  here  in  June  :  the  walks  we  have 

taken  together 
Through  these  darling  meadows,  and  dear,  old, 

desolate  woodlands  ; 
All  our   afternoon  readings,   and  all   our  strolls 

through  the  moonlit 
Village,  —  so   sweetly  asleep,  one   scarcely  could 

credit  the  scandal, 
Heartache,  and  trouble,  and  spite,  that  were  hushed 

for  the  night,  in  its  silence. 
Yes,  I  am  better.    I  think  I  could  even  be  civil  to 

him  for  his  kindness, 
Letting  me  come  here  without  him But  open 

the  gate,  Cousin  Clement ; 
Seems  to  me  it  grows  chill,  and  I  think   it  is 

healthier  in-doora. 
—  No,  then  !  you  need  not  speak,  for  I  know  well 

enough  what  is  coming  : 
Bitter  taunts  for  the  past,  and  discouraging  views 

of  the  future  1 
Tragedy,  Cousin   Clement,  or  comedy,  — just  as 

you  like  it ;  — 
Only  not  here  alone,  but  somewhere  that  people 

can  see  you. 
Then  I'  11  take  part  in  the  play,  and  appear  the 

remorseful  young  person 


Clement.  89 

Full  of  divine  regrets  at  not  having  smothered  a 
genius 

Under  the  feathers  and  silks  of  a  foolish,  extrava- 
gant woman. 

0  you  selfish  boy !  what  was  it,  just  now,  about 
anguish  1 

Bills  would  be  your  talk,  Cousin  Clement,  if  you 

were  my  husband." 

Then,    with   her   summer-night   glory   of  eyes 
low-bending  upon  him, 

Dark'ning  his  thoughts  as  the  pondered  stars  be- 
wilder and  darken, 

Tenderly,  wistfully  drooping  toward  him,  she  fal- 
tered in  whisper,  — 

All  her  mocking  face  transfigured,  —  with  mourn- 
ful effusion  : 

"  Clement,  do  not  think  it  is  you  alone  that  re- 
member, — 

Do  not  think  it  is  you  alone  that  have  suffered. 
Ambition, 

Fame,  and  your  art,  — you  have  all  these  things 
to  console  you. 

I  —  what  have  I  in  this  world?     Since  my  child 

is  dead  —  a  bereavement." 
Sad  hung  her  eyes  on  his,  and  he  felt  all  the 
anger  within  him 

Broken,  and  melting  in   tears.     But  he   shrank 
from  her  touch  while  he  answered 


90  Clement. 

(Awkwardly,  being  a  man,  and  awkwardly,  being 

a  lover), 
"Yes,   you   know  how   it  is  done.      You  have 

cleverly  fooled  me  beforetime, 
With  a  dainty  scorn,  and  then  an  imploring  for- 
giveness ! 

Yes,  you  might  play  it,  I  think,  —  that  r6le  of  re- 
morseful young  person, 
That,  or  the  old  man's  darling,  or  anything  else 

you  attempted. 
Even  your  earnest  is  so  much  like  acting  I  fear  a 

betrayal, 
Trusting  your  speech.     You  say  that  you  have 

not  forgotten.     I  grant  you  — 
Not,  indeed,  for  your  word  —  that  is  light  —  but 

I  wish  to  believe  you. 
Well,  I  say,  since  you  have  not  forgotten,  forget 

now,  forever ! 
I  —  I  have  lived  and  loved,  and  you  have  lived 

and  have  married. 
Only  receive  this  bud  to  remember  me  when  we 

have  parted,  — 
Thorns  and  splendor,  no  sweetness,  rose  of  the 

love  that  I  cherished  ! w 
There  he  tore  from  its  stalk  the  imperial  flower  of 

the  thistle, 
Tore,  and  gave  to  her,  who  took  it  with  mocking 

obeisance, 


Clement.  91 

Twined  it  in  her  hair,  and  said,  with  her  subtle 

derision : 
"  You  are  a  wiser  man  than  I  thought  you  could 

ever  be,  Clement,  — 
Sensible,  almost.     So !      I  '11   try  to   forget   and 

remember." 
Lightly  she  took  his  arm,  but  on  through  the  lane 

to  the  farm-house, 
Mutely  together  they  moved  through  the  lonesome, 

odorous  twilight. 

ii. 

High  on  the  farm-house  hearth,  the  first  autumn 

fire  was  kindled ; 
Scintillant  hickory  bark  and  dryest  limbs  of  the 

beech-tree 
Burned,  where  all  summer  long  the  boughs  of 

asparagus  flourished. 
Wild  were  the  children  with  mirth,  and  grouping 

and  clinging  together, 
Danced  with  the  dancing  flame,  and  lithely  swayed 

with  its  humor ; 
Ran  to  the  window-panes,  and  peering  forth  into 

the  darkness, 

Saw  there  another  room,  flame-lit,  and  with  frol- 
icking children. 
(Ah  !  by  such  phantom  hearths,  I  think  that  we 

sit  with  our  first-loves  !) 


92  Clement. 

Sometimes  they  tossed  on  the  floor,  and  sometimes 

they  hid  in  the  corners, 
Shouting  and  laughing  aloud,  and  never  resting  a 

moment, 
In  the  rude  delight,  the  boisterous  gladness  of 

childhood,  — 
Cruel  as  summer  sun   and   singing-birds  to  the 

heartsick. 
Clement  sat  in  his  chair  unmoved  in  the  midst 

of  the  hubbub, 
Rapt,  with  unseeing  eyes ;  and  unafraid  in  their 

gambols, 
By  his  tawny  beard  the  children  caught  him,  and 

clambered 
Over  his  knees,  and  waged  a  mimic  warfare  across 

them, 
Made  him  their  battle-ground,  and  won  and  lost 

kingdoms  upon  him. 

Airily  to  and  fro,  and  out  of  one  room  to  another 
Passed  his  cousin,  and  busied  herself  with  things 

of  the  household, 
Nonchalant,   debonair,    blithe,    with    bewitching 

housewifely  importance, 
Laying  the  cloth  for  the  supper,  and  bringing  the 

meal  from  the  kitchen ; 
Fairer  than  ever  she  seemed,  and  more  than  ever 

she  mocked  him, 


Clement.  93 

Coming  behind  his  chair,  and  clasping  her  fingers 

together 
Over  his  eyes  in  a  girlish  caprice,    and  crying, 

"  Who  is  it  ?  " 
Vexed   his  despair  with  a  vision  of  wife  and  of 

home  and  of  children, 

Calling  his  sister's  children  around  her,  and  still- 
ing their  clamor, 
Making  believe  they  were  hers.     And  Clement  sat 

moody  and  silent, 
Blank  to  the  wistful  gaze  of  his  mother  bent  on 

his  visage 

With  the  tender  pain,  the  pitiful,  helpless  devo- 
tion 
Of  the  mother  that  looks  on  the  face  of  her  son  in 

his  trouble, 
Grown  beyond  her  consoling,  and  knows  that  she 

cannot  befriend  him. 
Then  his  cousin  laughed,  and  in  idleness  talked 

with  the  children ; 
Sometimes  she  turned  to  him,  and  then  when  the 

thistle  was  falling, 
Caught  it  and  twined  it  again  in  her  hair,  and 

called  it  her  keepsake, 
Smiled,  and  made  him  ashamed  of  his  petulant 

gift  there,  before  them. 
But,  when  the  night  was  grown  old  and  the  two 

by  the  hearthstone  together 


94  Clement. 

Sat  alone  in  the  flickering  red  of  the  flame,  and 

the  cricket 
Carked  to   the   stillness,    and  ever,   with   sullen 

throbs  of  the  pendule 
Sighed  the  time-worn  clock  for  the  death  of  the 

days  that  were  perished,  — 
It  was  her  whim  to  be  sad,  and  she  brought  him 

the  book  they  were  reading. 
"Read  it  to-night,"  she  said,  "that  I  may  not 

seem  to  be  going. " 
Said,  and  mutely  reproached  him  with  all  the  pain 

she  had  wrought  him. 
From  her  hand  he  took  the  volume  and  read,  and 

she  listened,  — 
All  his  voice  molten  in  secret  tears,  and  ebbing 

and  flowing, 
Now  with  a  faltering  breath,  and  now  with  im- 

impassioned  abandon ,  — 
Read  from  the  book  of  a  poet  the  rhyme  of  the 

fatally  sundered, 
Fatally  met  too  late,  and  their  love  was  their 

guilt  and  their  anguish, 
But  in  the  night  they  rose,  and  fled  away  into 

the  darkness, 
Glad  of  all  dangers  and  shames,  and  even  of  death, 

for  their  love's  sake. 
Then,  when  his  voice   brake  hollowly,  falling 

and  fading  to  silence, 


Clement.  95 

Thrilled  in  the  silence  they  sat,  and  durst  not 

behold  one  another, 
Feeling  that  wild  temptation,  that  tender,  ineffable 

yearning, 
Drawing  them   heart  to  heart.     One  blind,  mad 

moment  of  passion 
With  their  fate  they  strove ;  but  out  of  the  pang 

of  the  conflict, 
Through  such  costly  triumph  as  wins  a  waste  and 

a  famine, 
Victors  they  came,  and  Love  retrieved  the  error 

of  loving. 

So,  foreknowing  the  years,  and  sharply  discern- 
ing the  future, 
Guessing  the  riddle  of  life,  and  accepting  the  cruel 

solution,  — 
Side   by  side  they  sat,  as  far  as  the  stars  are 

asunder. 
Carked  the  cricket  no  more,  but  while  the  audible 

silence 
Shrilled  in  their  ears,  she,  suddenly  rising  and 

dragging  the  thistle 

Out  of  her  clinging  hair,  laughed  mockingly,  cast- 
ing it  from  her : 
"  Perish  the  thorns  and  splendor,  —  the  bloom  and 

the  sweetness  are  perished. 
Dreary,  respectable  calm,  polite  despair,  and  one's 

Duty,— 


96  Clement. 

These  and  the  world,  for  dead  Love !  —  The  end 

of  these  modern  romances  ! 
Better  than  yonder  rhyme  1 .  .  .  .  Pleasant  dreams 

and  good  night,  Cousin  Clement." 


By  the  Sea.  97 


BY  THE  SEA. 

T  WALKED  with  her  I  love  by  the  sea, 

-L  The  deep  came  up  with  its  chanting  waves, 

Making  a  music  so  great  and  free 

That  the  will  and  the  faith,  which  were  dead  in  me, 
Awoke  and  rose  from  their  graves. 

Chanting,  and  with  a  regal  sweep 

Of  their  'broidered  garments  up  and  down 

The  strand,  came  the  mighty  waves  of  the  deep, 
Dragging  the  wave-worn  drift  from  its  sleep 
Along  the  sea-sands  bare  and  brown. 

"  0  my  soul,  make  the  song  of  the  sea  ! "  I  cried. 

"  How  it  comes,  with  its  stately  tread, 
And  its  dreadful  voice,  and  the  splendid  pride 

Of  its  regal  garments  flowing  wide 

Over  the  land  !"  to  my  soul  I  said. 

My  soul  was  still ;  the  deep  went  down. 
"  What  hast  thou,  my  soul,"  I  cried, 
"  In  thy  song  1 "    "  The  sea-sands  bare  and  brown, 
With  broken  shells  and  sea-weed  strown, 

And  stranded  drift,"  my  soul  replied. 
5  G 


98  Saint  Christopher. 


SAINT  CHRISTOPHER. 

Ethe  narrow  Venetian  street, 
3n  the  wall  above  the  garden  gate 
(Within,  the  breath  of  the  rose  is  sweet, 

And  the  nightingale  sings  there,  soon  and  late), 

Stands  Saint  Christopher,  carven  in  stone, 
With  the  little  child  in  his  huge  caress, 

And  the  arms  of  the  baby  Jesus  thrown 
About  his  gigantic  tenderness ; 

And  over  the  wall  a  wandering  growth 

Of  darkest  and  greenest  ivy  clings, 
And  climbs  around  them,  and  holds  them  both 

In  its  netted  clasp  of  knots  and  rings, 

Clothing  the  saint  from  foot  to  beard 

In  glittering  leaves  that  whisper  and  dance 

To  the  child,  on  his  mighty  arm  upreared, 
With  a  lusty  summer  exuberance. 

To  the  child  on  his  arm  the  faithful  saint 
Looks  up  with  a  broad  and  tranquil  joy; 


Saint  Christopher.  99 

His  brows  and  his  heavy  beard  aslant 
Under  the  dimpled  chin  of  the  boy, 

Who  plays  with  the  world  upon  his  palm, 

And  bends  his  smiling  looks  divine 
On  the  face  of  the  giant  mild  and  calm, 

And  the  glittering  frolic  of  the  vine. 

He  smiles  on  either  with  equal  grace,  — 
On  the  simple  ivy's  unconscious  life, 

And  the  soul  in  the  giant's  lifted  face, 
Strong  from  the  peril  of  the  strife  : 

For  both  are  his  own,  —  the  innocence 

That  climbs  from  the  heart  of  earth  to  heaven, 

And  the  virtue  that  gently  rises  thence 
Through  trial  sent  and  victory  given. 

Grow,  ivy,  up  to  his  countenance, 

But  it  cannot  smile  on  my  life  as  on  thine ; 

Look,  Saint,  with  thy  trustful,  fearless  glance, 
Where  I  dare  not  lift  these  eyes  of  mine. 
Venice,  1863. 


100  Elegy. 


ELEGY  ON  JOHN  BUTLER  HOWELLS, 

Who  died,  "  with  the  first  song  of  the  birds,"  Wednesday 
morning,  April  27,  1864. 


IN  the  early  morning  when  I  wake 
At  the  hour  that  is  sacred  for  his  sake, 

And  hear  the  happy  birds  of  spring 
In  the  garden  under  my  window  sing, 

And  through  my  window  the  daybreak  blows 
The  sweetness  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

A  dormant  anguish  wakes  with  day, 

And  my  heart  is  smitten  with  strange  dismay  : 

Distance  wider  than  thine,  0  sea, 
Darkens  between  my  brother  and  me ! 


ii. 

A  scrap  of  print,  a  few  brief  lines, 
The  fatal  word  that  swims  and  shines 


Elegy.  101 

On  my  tears,  with  a  meaning  new  and  dread, 
Make  faltering  reason  know  him  dead, 

And  I  would  that  my  heart  might  feel  it  too, 
And  unto  its  own  regret  be  true  ; 

For  this  is  the  hardest  of  all  to  bear, 
That  his  life  was  so  generous  and  fair, 

So  full  of  love,  so  full  of  hope, 
Broadening  out  with  ample  scope, 

And  so  far  from  death,  that  his  dying  seems 
The  idle  agony  of  dreams 

To  my  heart,  that  feels  him  living  yet,  — 
And  I  forget,  and  I  forget. 

in. 

He  was  almost  grown  a  man  when  he  passed 
Away,  but  when  I  kissed  him  last 

He  was  still  a  child,  and  I  had  crept 
Up  to  the  little  room  where  he  slept, 

And  thought  to  kiss  him  good-by  in  his  sleep ; 
But  he  was  awake  to  make  me  weep 


102  Elegy. 

With  terrible  homesickness,  before 
My  wayward  feet  had  passed  the  door. 

Round  about  me  clung  his  embrace, 
And  he  pressed  against  my  face  his  face, 

As  if  some  prescience  whispered  him  then 
That  it  never,  never  should  be  again. 

IV. 

Out  of  far-off  days  of  boyhood  dim, 

When  he  was  a  babe  and  I  played  with  him, 

I  remember  his  looks  and  all  his  ways ; 
And  how  he  grew  through  childhood's  grace, 

To  the  hopes,  and  strifes,  and  sports,  and  joys, 
And  innocent  vanity  of  boys  ; 

I  hear  his  whistle  at  the  door, 
His  careless  step  upon  the  floor, 

His  song,  his  jest,  his  laughter  yet,  — 
And  I  forget,  and  I  forget. 

v. 

Somewhere  in  the  graveyard  that  I  know, 
Where  the  strawberries  under  the  chestnuts  grow, 


Elegy.  103 

They  have  laid  him  ;  and  his  sisters  set 

On  his  grave  the  flowers  their  tears  have  wet ; 

And  above  his  grave,  while  I  write,  the  song 
Of  the  matin  robin  leaps  sweet  and  strong 

From  the  leafy  dark  of  the  chestnut-tree  ; 
And  many  a  murmuring  honey-bee 

On  the  strawberry  blossoms  in  the  grass 
Stoops  by  his  grave  and  will  not  pass ; 

And  in  the  little  hollow  beneath 
The  slope  of  the  silent  field  of  death, 

The  cow-bells  tinkle  soft  and  sweet, 
And  the  cattle  go  by  with  homeward  feet, 

And  the  squirrel  barks  from  the  sheltering  limb, 
At  the  harmless  noises  not  meant  for  him  j 

And  Nature,  unto  her  loving  heart 
Has  taken  our  darling's  mortal  part, 

Tenderly,  that  he  may  be, 

Like  the  song  of  the  robin  in  the  tree, 

The  blossoms,  the  grass,  the  reeds  by  the  shore, 
A  part  of  Summer  evermore. 


104  Elegy. 


VI. 

I  write,  and  the  words  with  my  tears  are  wet,  — 
But  I  forget,  0,  I  forget ! 

Teach  me,  Thou  that  sendest  this  pain, 
To  know  and  feel  my  loss  and  gain  ! 

Let  me  not  falter  in  belief 

On  his  death,  for  that  is  sorest  grief : 

0,  lift  me  above  this  wearing  strife, 
Till  I  discern  his  deathless  life, 

Shining  beyond  this  misty  shore, 
A  part  of  Heaven  evermore. 

Venice,  Wednesday  Morning,  at  Dawn, 
May  16,  16C4. 


Thanksgiving.  105 


THANKSGIVING. 


LOUD,  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought : 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still : 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept, 
Our  thanksgiving  accept. 

ii. 

For  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer  : 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow,  sent 
Unto  our  chastisement : 
For  all  loss  of  seeming  good, 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 


5* 


106  A  Springtime. 


A  SPRINGTIME. 

ONE  knows  the  spring  is  coming  : 
There  are  birds ;  the  fields  are  green ; 
There  is  balm  in  the  sunlight  and  moonlight, 
And  dew  in  the  twilights  between. 

But  ever  there  is  a  silence, 

A  rapture  great  and  dumb, 
That  day  when  the  doubt  is  ended, 

And  at  last  the  spring  is  come. 

Behold  the  wonder,  0  silence  ! 

Strange  as  if  wrought  in  a  night,  — 
The  waited  and  lingering  glory, 

The  world-old,  fresh  delight ! 

0  blossoms  that  hang  like  winter, 

Drifted  upon  the  trees, 
0  birds  that  sing  in  the  blossoms, 

0  blossom-haunting  bees,  — 

0  green,  green  leaves  on  the  branches, 
0  shadowy  dark  below, 


A  Springtime.  107 

0  cool  of  the  aisles  of  orchards, 

Woods  that  the  wild  flowers  know,    - 

0  air  of  gold  and  perfume, 

Wind,  breathing  sweet  and  sun, 

0  sky  of  perfect  azure  — 

Day,  Heaven  and  Earth  in  one  !  — 

Let  me  draw  near  thy  secret, 

And  in  thy  deep  heart  see 
How  fared,  in  doubt  and  dreaming, 

The  spring  that  is  come  in  me. 

For  my  soul  is  held  in  silence, 

A  rapture,  great  and  dumb,  — 
For  the  mystery  that  lingered, 

The  glory  that  is  come  ! 


1861. 


108  In  Earliest  Spring. 


IN  EARLIEST  SPRING. 

r  I  BOSSING  his  mane  of  snows  in  wildest  eddies 
J-       and  tangles, 

Lion-like,  March  cometh  in,  hoarse,  with  tem- 
pestuous breath, 
Through  all  the  moaning  chimneys,  and  thwart 

all  the  hollows  and  angles 
Round  the  shuddering  house,  threating  of  win- 
ter and  death. 

But  in  my  heart  I  feel  the  life  of  the  wood  and  the 

meadow 
Thrilling  the  pulses  that  own  kindred  with  fibres 

that  lift 

Bud  and  blade  to  tho  sunward,  within  the  in- 
scrutable shadow, 

Deep  in  the  oak's  chill  core,  under  the  gathering 
drift. 

Nay,  to  earth's  life  in  mine  some  prescience,  or 

dream,  or  desire 

(How  shall  I  name  it  aright  1)  comes  for  a  mo- 
ment and  goes,  — 


In  Earliest  Spring.  109 

Kapture  of  life  ineffable,  perfect,  —  as  if  in  the 

brier, 

Leafless  there  by  my  door,  trembled  a  sense  of 
the  rose. 


110  The  Bobolinks  art  Singing. 


THE  BOBOLINKS  ARE  SINGING. 

OUT  of  its  fragrant  heart  of  bloom,  — 
The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
Out  of  its  fragrant  heart  of  bloom 
The  apple-tree  whispers  to  the  room, 
"  Why  art  thou  but  a  nest  of  gloom, 
While  the  bobolinks  are  singing  1 " 

The  two  wan  ghosts  of  the  chamber  there,  - 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
The  two  wan  ghosts  of  the  chamber  there 
Cease  in  the  breath  of  the  honeyed  air, 
Sweep  from  the  room  and  leave  it  bare, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

Then  with  a  breath  so  chill  and  slow,  — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
Then  with  a  breath  so  chill  and  slow, 
It  freezes  the  blossoms  into  snow, 
The  haunted  room  makes  answer  low, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 


The  Bobolinks  are  Singing.  Ill 

"  I  know  that  in  the  meadow-land,  — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
I  know  that  in  the  meadow-land 
The  sorrowful,  slender  elm-trees  stand, 
And  the  brook  goes  by  on  the  other  hand, 
While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  But  ever  I  see,  in  the  brawling  stream,  — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
But  ever  I  see  in  the  brawling  stream 
A  maiden  drowned  and  floating  dim, 
Under  the  water,  like  a  dream, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  Buried,  she  lies  in  the  meadow-land !  — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
Buried,  she  lies  in  the  meadow-land, 
Under  the  sorrowful  elms  where  they  stand. 
Wind,  blow  over  her  soft  and  bland, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  0  blow,  but  stir  not  the  ghastly  thing,  — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
0  blow,  but  stir  not  the  ghastly  thing 
The  farmer  saw  so  heavily  swing 
From  the  elm,  one  merry  morn  of  spring, 

While  the  bobolinks  were  singing. 


112  The  Bobolinks  are  Singing. 

11  0  blow,  and  blow  away  the  bloom,  — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
0  blow,  and  blow  away  the  bloom 
That  sickens  me  in  my  heart  of  gloom, 
That  sweetly  sickens  the  haunted  room, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing  ! " 


Prelude.  113 


PKELUDE. 

(TO   AN   EARLY   BOOK   OF   VERSE.) 

IN  March  the  earliest  bluebird  came 
And  caroled  from  the  orchard-tree 
His  little  tremulous  songs  to  me, 
And  called  upon  the  summer's  name, 

And  made  old  summers  in  my  heart 
All  sweet  with  flower  and  sun  again ; 
So  that  I  said,  "  0,  not  in  vain 

Shall  be  thy  lay  of  little  art, 

"  Though  never  summer  sun  may  glow, 
Nor  summer  flower  for  thee  may  bloom ; 
Though  winter  turn  in  sudden  gloom, 

And  drowse  the  stirring  spring  with  snow  " ; 

And  learned  to  trust,  if  I  should  call 

Upon  the  sacred  name  of  Song, 

Though  chill  through  March  I  languish  long, 
And  never  feel  the  May  at  all, 


114  Prelude. 

Yet  may  I  touch,  in  some  who  hear, 
The  hearts,  wherein  old  songs  asleep 
Wait  but  the  feeblest  touch  to  leap 

In  music  sweet  as  summer  air ! 

I  sing  in  March  brief  bluebird  lays, 
And  hope  a  May,  and  do  not  know  : 
May  be,  the  heaven  is  full  of  snow,  — 

May  be,  there  open  summer  days. 


The  Movers.  115 


THE  MOVERS. 


SKETCH. 

PARTING  was  over  at  last,  and  all  the  good- 
bys  had  been  spoken. 
Up  the  long  hillside  road  the  white-tented  wagon 

moved  slowly, 
Bearing   the  mother  and  children,  while  onward 

before  them  the  father 
Trudged  with  his  gun  on  his  arm,  and  the  faithful 

house-dog  beside  him, 
Grave  and  sedate,  as   if  knowing  the   sorrowful 

thoughts  of  his  master. 


April  was  in  her  prime,  and  the  day  in  its  dewy 
awaking : 

Like  a  great  flower,  afar  on  the  crest  of  the  east- 
ern woodland, 

Goldenly  bloomed  the  sun,  and  over  the  beautiful 
valley, 

Dim  with  its  dew  and  shadow,  and  bright  with 
its  dream  of  a  river, 


116  The  Movers. 

Looked  to  the  western  hills,  and  shone  on   the 

humble  procession, 
Paining  with  splendor  the  children's  eyes,  and  the 

heart  of  the  mother. 

Beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  song  filled  the  air 

like  a  palpable  presence. 
Sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  dewy  leaves  and  the 

flowers  in  the  wild-wood, 
Fair  the  long  reaches  of  sun  and  shade  in  the 

aisles  of  the  forest. 
Glad  of  the  spring,  and  of  love,  and  of  morning, 

the  wild  birds  were  singing  : 
Jays  to  each  other  called  harshly,  then  mellowly 

fluted  together ; 
Sang  the  oriole  songs  as  golden  and  gay  as  his 

plumage ; 

Pensively  piped  the  querulous  quails  their  greet- 
ings unfrequent, 
While,  on  the   meadow  elm,  the   meadow   lark 

gushed  forth  in  music, 
Rapt,  exultant,  and  shaken  with  the  great  joy  of 

his  singing ; 
Over  the  river,  loud-chattering,  aloft  in  the  air, 

the  kingfisher 
Hung,  ere  he  dropped,  like  a  bolt,  in  the  water 

beneath  him  ; 


The  Movers.  117 

Gossiping,  out  of  the  bank  flew  myriad  twitter- 
ing swallows ; 

And  in  the  boughs  of  the  sycamores  quarrelled 
and  clamored  the  blackbirds. 


Never  for  these  things  a  moment  halted  the 
Movers,  but  onward, 

Up  the  long  hillside  road  the  white-tented  wagon 
moved  slowly. 

Till,  on  the  summit,  that  overlooked  all  the 
beautiful  valley, 

Trembling  and  spent,  the  horses  came  to  a  stand- 
still unbidden  j 

Then  from  the  wagon  the  mother  in  silence  got 
down  with  her  children, 

Came,  and  stood  by  the  father,  and  rested  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Long  together  they  gazed  on  the  beautiful  valley 

before  them ; 
Looked  on  the  well-known  fields  that  stretched 

away  to  the  woodlands, 
Where,   in  the  dark  lines  of  green,   showed  the 

milk-white  crest  of  the  dogwood, 
Snow  of  wild-plums  in  bloom,  and  crimson  tints 

of  the  red-bud ; 


118  T/te  Movers. 

Looked   on  the  pasture-fields   where  the   cattle 

were  lazily  grazing,  — 
Soft,  and  sweet,  and  thin  came  the  faint,  far  notes 

of  the  cow-bells,  — 
Looked  on  the  oft-trodden  lanes,  with  their  elder 

and  blackberry  borders, 
Looked  on   the  orchard,  a  bloomy  sea,  with  its 

billows  of  blossoms. 
Fair  was  the  scene,  yet  suddenly  strange  and  all 

unfamiliar, 
As  are  the  faces  of  friends,  when  the  word  of 

farewell  has  been  spoken. 
Long  together  they  gazed ;  then  at  last  on  the 

little  log-cabin  — 

Home  for  so  many  years,  now  home  no  longer  for- 
ever— 
Rested  their  tearless  eyes  in  the  silent  rapture  of 

anguish. 
Up  on  the  morning  air  no  column  of  smoke  from 

the  chimney 
Wavering,   silver    and    azure,    rose,   fading    and 

brightening  ever ; 
Shut  was  the  door  where  yesterday  morning  the 

children  were  playing ; 
Lit  with  a  gleam  of  the  sun  the  window  stared  up 

at  them  blindly. 
Cold  was  the  hearthstone  now,  and  the  place  was 

forsaken  and  empty. 


The  Movers.  119 

Empty  ?  Ah  no  !   but  haunted  by  thronging  and 

tenderest  fancies, 
Sad  recollections  of  all  that  had  been,  of  sorrow 

or  gladness. 

Still  they  sat  there  in  the  glow  of  the  wide  red 
fire  in  the  winter, 

Still  they  sat  there  by  the  door  in  the  cool  of 
the  still  summer  evening, 

Still  the  mother  seemed  to  be  singing  her  babe 
there  to  slumber, 

Still  the  father  beheld  her  weep  o'er  the  child  that 
was  dying, 

Still  the  place  was  haunted  by  all  the  Past's  sor- 
row and  gladness ! 

Neither  of  them  might  speak  for  the  thoughts 

that  came  crowding  their  hearts  so, 
Till,  in  their  ignorant  trouble  aloud  the  children 

lamented ; 
Then  was  the  spell  of  silence  dissolved,  and  the 

father  and  mother 
Burst  into  tears  and  embraced,  and  turned  their 

dim  eyes  to  the  Westward. 

Ohio,  1859. 


120  Through  the  Meadow. 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOW. 

fTlHE  summer  sun  was  soft  and  bland, 
-L    As  they  went  through  the  meadow  land. 

The  little  wind  that  hardly  shook 
The  silver  of  the  sleeping  brook 
Blew  the  gold  hair  about  her  eyes,  — 
A  mystery  of  mysteries ! 
So  he  must  often  pause,  r.nd  stoop, 
And  all  the  wanton  ringlets  loop 
Behind  her  dainty  ear  —  emprise 
Of  slow  event  and  many  sighs. 

Across  the  stream  was  scarce  a  step,  — 
And  yet  she  feared  to  try  the  leap ; 
And  he,  to  still  her  sweet  alarm, 
Must  lift  her  over  on  his  arm. 

She  could  not  keep  the  narrow  way, 
For  still  the  little  feet  would  stray, 
And  ever  must  he  bend  t*  undo 
The  tangled  grasses  from  her  shoe,  — 


Through  the  Meadow.  121 

From  dainty  rosebud  lips  in  pout, 
Must  kiss  the  perfect  flower  out ! 

Ah  !  little  coquette  !     Fair  deceit ! 
Some  things  are  bitter  that  were  sweet. 


122  Gone. 


GONE. 

IS  it  the  shrewd  October  wind 
Brings  the  tears  into  her  eyes  1 
Does  it  blow  so  strong  that  she  must  fetch 
Her  breath  in  sudden  sighs  ? 

The  sound  of  his  horse's  feet  grows  faint, 
The  Rider  has  passed  from  sight ; 

The  day  dies  out  of  the  crimson  west. 
And  coldly  falls  the  night. 

She  presses  her  tremulous  fingers  tight 

Against  her  closed  eyes, 
And  on  the  lonesome  threshold  there, 

She  cowers  down  and  cries. 


The  Sarcastic  Fair.  123 


THE  SARCASTIC  FAIR 

HER  mouth  is  a  honey-blossom, 
No  doubt,  as  the  poet  sings  ; 
But  within  her  lips,  the  petals, 
Lurks  a  cruel  bee,  that  stings. 


1 24  Rapture. 


RAPTURR 

IN  my  rhyme  I  fable  anguish, 
Feigning  that  my  love  is  dead, 
Playing  at  a  game  of  sadness, 
Singing  hope  forever  fled,  — 

Trailing  the  slow  robes  of  mourning, 
Grieving  with  the  player's  art, 

With  the  languid  palms  of  sorrow 
Folded  on  a  dancing  heart. 

I  must  mix  my  love  with  death-dust, 
Lest  the  draught  should  make  me  mad ; 

I  must  make  believe  at  sorrow, 
Lest  I  perish,  over-glad. 


Dead.  125 


DEAD. 


QOMETHING  lies  in  the  room 

^O     Over  against  my  own ; 

The  windows  are  lit  with  a  ghastly  bloom 

Of  candles,  burning  alone,  — 
Untrimmed,  and  all  aflare 
In  the  ghastly  silence  there  ! 

ii. 

People  go  by  the  door, 

Tiptoe,  holding  their  breath, 
And  hush  the  talk  that  they  held  before, 

Lest  they  should  waken  Death, 
That  is  awake  all  night 
There  in  the  candlelight ! 

in. 

The  cat  upon  the  stairs 

Watches  with  flamy  eye 
For  the  sleepy  one  who  shall  unawares 

Let  her  go  stealing  by. 


126  Dead. 

She  softly,  softly  purrs, 
And  claws  at  the  banisters. 


IV. 

The  bird  from  out  its  dream 

Breaks  with  a  sudden  song, 
That  stabs  the  sense  like  a  sudden  scream  ; 

The  hound  the  whole  night  long 
Howls  to  the  moonless  sky, 
So  far,  and  starry,  and  high. 


The  Doubt.  127 


THE  DOUBT. 

SHE  sits  beside  the  low  window, 
In  the  pleasant  evening-time, 
With  her  face  turned  to  the  sunset, 
Reading  a  book  of  rhyme. 

And  the  wine-light  of  the  sunset, 
Stolen  into  the  dainty  nook, 

Where  she  sits  in  her  sacred  beauty, 
Lies  crimson  on  the  book. 

0  beautiful  eyes  so  tender, 

Brown  eyes  so  tender  and  dear, 

Did  you  leave  your  reading  a  moment 
Just  now,  as  I  passed  near  1 

Maybe,  't  is  the  sunset  flushes 

Her  features,  so  lily-pale ; 
Maybe,  't  is  the  lover's  passion, 

She  reads  of  in  the  tale. 

0  darling,  and  darling,  and  darling, 
If  I  dared  to  trust  my  thought ; 


128  The  Doubt. 

If  I  dared  to  believe  what  I  must  not, 
Believe  what  no  one  ought,  — 

We  would  read  together  the  poem 
Of  the  Love  that  never  died, 

The  passionate,  world-old  story 
Come  true,  and  glorified. 


The  Thorn.  129 


THE  THORN. 

VERY  Rose,  you  sang,  has  its  Thorn. 
J— ^     But  this  has  none,  I  know." 
She  clasped  my  rival's  Rose 
Over  her  breast  of  snow. 

I  bowed  to  hide  my  pain, 

With  a  man's  unskilful  art ; 
I  moved  my  lips,  and  could  not  say 

The  Thorn  was  in  my  heart ! 


130  The  Mysteries. 


THE  MYSTERIES. 

ONCE  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child,  I  crept, 
Holding  my  breath  ; 

There,  safe  and  sad,  lay  shuddering,  and  wept 
At  the  dark  mystery  of  Death. 

Weary  and  weak,  and  worn  with  all  unrest, 

Spent  with  the  strife,  — 
O  mother,  let  me  weep  upon  thy  breast 

At  the  sad  mystery  of  Life ! 


The  Battle  in  the  Clouds.  131 


THE  BATTLE   IN   THE  CLOUDS. 

"  The  day  had  been  one  of  dense  mists  and  rains,  and  much 
of  General  Hooker's  battle  was  fought  above  the  clouds,  on  the 
top  of  Lookout  Mountain."  —  GENERAL  MEIG'S  fieport  of  the 
Battle  before  CJiattanooga. 

WHERE   the  dews  and  the  rains  of  heaven 
have  their  fountain, 
Like  its  thunder  and  its  lightning  our  brave 

burst  on  the  foe, 

Up  above  the  clouds  on  Freedom's  Lookout  Moun- 
tain 
Raining  life-blood  like  water  on  the  valleys  down 

below. 

O,  green  be  the  laurels  that  grow, 
0  sweet  be  the  wild-buds  that  blow, 
In  the  dells  of  the  mountain  where  the  brave 
are  lying  low. 

Light  of  our  hope  and  crown  of  our  story, 

Bright  as  sunlight,  pure  as  starlight  shall  their 

deeds  of  daring  glow, 
While  the  day  and  the  night  out  of  heaven  shed 

their  glory, 


132  Tht  Battle  in  the  Clouds. 

On  Freedom's  Lookout  Mountain  whence  they 

routed  Freedom's  foe. 
0,  soft  be  the  gales  when  they  go 
Through  the  pines  on  the  summit  where 

they  blow, 

Chanting  solemn  music  for  the  souls  that  passed 
below. 


For  One  of  ilie  Killed.  133 


FOR  ONE   OF  THE  KILLED. 

rpHERE  on  the  field  of  battle 
-L      Lies  the  young  warrior  dead  : 
Who  shall  speak  in  the  soldier's  honor  1 
How  shall  his  praise  be  said  ? 

Cannon,  there  in  the  battle, 

Thundered  the  soldier's  praise, 
Hark  !  how  the  volumed  volleys  echo 

Down  through  the  far-off  days  ! 

Tears  for  the  grief  of  a  father, 

For  a  mother's  anguish,  tears ; 
But  for  him  that  died  in  his  country's  battle, 

Glory  and  endless  years. 


134  The  Two  Wives. 


THE  TWO  WIVES. 

(TO  COLONEL  J.  O.  M.,    IN    MEMORY  OF  THE    EVENT    BEFORE 
ATLANTA.) 


E  colonel  rode  by  his  picket-line 
-L.      In  the  pleasant  morning  sun, 
That  glanced  from  him  far  off  to  shine 
On  the  crouching  rebel  picket's  gun. 

ii. 
From  his  command  the  captain  strode 

Out  with  a  grave  salute. 
And  talked  with  the  colonel  as  he  rode  ;  — 

The  picket  levelled  his  piece  to  shoot. 

in. 
The  colonel  rode  and  the  captain  walked,  — 

The  arm  of  the  picket  tired ; 
Their  faces  almost  touched  as  they  talked, 

And,  swerved  from  his  aim,  the  picket  fired 

IV. 

The  captain  fell  at  the  horse's  feet, 
Wounded  and  hurt  to  death, 


The  Two  Wives.  135 

Calling  upon  a  name  that  was  sweet 
As  God  is  good,  with  his  dying  breath. 

v. 

And  the  colonel  that  leaped  from  his  horse  and 

knelt 

To  close  the  eyes  so  dim, 
A  high  remorse  for  God's  mercy  felt, 
Knowing  the  shot  was  meant  for  him. 
* 

VI. 

And  he  whispered,  prayer-like,  under  his  breath, 

The  name  of  his  own  young  wife  : 
For  Love,  that  had  made  his  friend's  peace  with 
Death, 

Alone  could  make  his  with  life. 


136  Bereaved. 


BEREAVED. 

THE  passionate  humming-birds  cling 
To  the  honeysuckles'  hearts ; 
In  and  out  at  the  open  window 
The  twittering  house-wren  darts, 
And  the  sun  is  bright. 

June  is  young,  and  warm,  and  sweet ; 

The  morning  is  gay  and  new ; 
Glimmers  yet  the  grass  of  the  door-yard, 

Pearl-gray  with  fragrant  dew, 

And  the  sun  is  bright 

From  the  mill,  upon  the  stream, 

A  busy  murmur  swells ; 
On  to  the  pasture  go  the  cattle, 

Lowing,  with  tinkling  bells, 

And  the  sun  is  bright. 

She  gathers  his  playthings  up, 
And  dreamily  puts  them  by ; 

Children  are  playing  in  the  meadow, 
She  hears  their  joyous  cry, 

And  the  sun  is  bright 


Bereaved.  137 

She  sits  and  clasps  her  brow, 

And  looks  with  swollen  eyes 
On  the  landscape  that  reels  and  dances,  — 

To  herself  she  softly  cries, 

And  the  sun  is  bright. 


138  The  Snow-Birds. 


THE  SNOW-BIRDS. 

THE  lonesome  graveyard  lieth, 
A  deep  with  silent  waves 
Of  night-long  snow,  all  white,  and  billowed 
Over  the  hidden  graves. 

The  snow-birds  come  in  the  morning, 

Flocking  and  fluttering  low, 
And  light  on  the  graveyard  brambles, 

And  twitter  there  in  the  snow. 

The  Singer,  old  and  weary, 

Looks  out  from  his  narrow  room  : 

"  Ah,  me  !  but  my  thoughts  are  snow-birds, 
Haunting  a  graveyard  gloom, 

"  Where  all  the  Past  is  buried 

And  dead,  these  many  years, 
Under  the  drifted  whiteness 

Of  frozen  falls  of  tears. 

"  Poor  birds  !  that  know  not  summer, 

Nor  sun,  nor  flowlrs  fair,  — 
Only  the  graveyard  brambles, 

And  graves,  and  winter  air ! " 


Vagary.  139 


VAGARY. 

"1    TP  and  down  the  dusty  street, 
^     I  hurry  with  my  burning  feet ; 
Against  my  face  the  wind-waves  beat, 
Fierce  from  the  city-sea  of  heat. 

Deep  in  my  heart  the  vision  is, 
Of  meadow  grass  and  meadow  trees 
Blown  silver  in  the  summer  breeze, 
And  ripe,  red,  hillside  strawberries. 

My  sense  the  city  tumult  fills,  — 
The  tumult  that  about  me  reels 
Of  strokes  and  cries,  and  feet  and  wheels. 
Deep  in  my  dream  I  list,  and,  hark ! 
From  out  the  maple's  leafy  dark, 
The  fluting  of  the  meadow  lark  ! 

About  the  thronged  street  I  go : 
There  is  no  face  here  that  I  know ; 
Of  all  that  pass  me  to  and  fro 
There  is  no  face  here  that  I  know. 

Deep  in  my  soul's  most  sacred  place, 
With  a  sweet  pain  I  look  and  trace 
The  features  of  a  tender  face, 
All  lit  with  love  and  girlish  grace. 


140  Vagary. 

Some  spell  is  on  me,  for  I  seem 
A  memory  of  the  past,  a  dream 
Of  happiness  remembered  dim, 

Unto  myself  that  walk  the  street 
Scathed  with  the  city's  noontide  heat, 
With  puzzled  brain  and  burning  feet. 


Feuerbttder.  141 


FEUERBILDER. 

E  children  sit  by  the  fireside 
-L      With  their  little  faces  in  bloom; 
And  behind,  the  lily-pale  mother, 
Looking  out  of  the  gloom, 

Flushes  in  cheek  and  forehead 
With  a  light  and  sudden  start ; 

But  the  father  sits  there  silent, 
From  the  firelight  apart. 

"  Now,  what  dost  thou  see  in  the  embers  1 

Tell  it  to  me,  my  child," 
Whispers  the  lily-pale  mother 

To  her  daughter  sweet  and  mild. 

"  0,  I  see  a  sky  and  a  moon 

In  the  coals  and  ashes  there, 
And  under,  two  are  walking 

In  a  garden  of  flowers  so  fair. 

"  A  lady  gay,  and  her  lover, 
Talking  with  low-voiced  words, 


142  Feuerbilder. 

Not  to  waken  the  dreaming  flowers 
And  the  sleepy  little  birds." 

Back  in  the  gloom  the  mother 

Shrinks  with  a  sudden  sigh. 
"  Now,  what  dost  thou  see  in  the  embers  1 " 

Cries  the  father  to  the  boy. 

"  0,  I  see  a  wedding-procession 
Go  in  at  the  church's  door,  — 

Ladies  in  silk  and  knights  in  steel,  — 
A  hundred  of  them,  and  more. 

"  The  bride's  face  is  as  white  as  a  lily, 
And  the  groom's  head  is  white  as  snow ; 

And  without,  with  plumes  and  tapers, 
A  funeral  paces  slow." 

Loudly  then  laughed  the  father, 
And  shouted  again  for  cheer, 

And  called  to  the  drowsy  housemaid 
To  fetch  him  a  pipe  and  beer. 


Avery.  143 


AVERY. 
[NIAGARA,  1853.] 


ALL  night  long  they  heard  in  the  houses  be- 
side the  shore, 

Heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  through  the  multitudi- 
nous roar, 
Out  of  the  hell  of  the  rapids  as  't  were  a  lost  soul's 

cries,  — 
Heard  and  could  not  believe ;  and  the  morning 

mocked  their  eyes, 
Showing,   where  wildest  and  fiercest  the  waters 

leaped  up  and  ran 

Raving  round  him  and  past,  the  visage  of  a  man 
Clinging,  or  seeming  to  cling,  to  the  trunk  of  a 

tree  that,  caught 
Fast  in  the  rocks  below,  scarce  out  of  the  surges 

raught. 
Was  it  a  life,  could  it  be,  to  yon  slender  hope  that 

clung  1 
Shrill,  above  all  the  tumult  the  answering  terror 

rung. 


144  Avery. 

/ 

IL 

Under  the  weltering  rapids  a  boat  from  the  bridge 

is  drowned, 
Over  the  rocks  the  lines  of  another  are  tangled 

and  wound ; 
And  the  long,  fateful  hours  of  the  morning  have 

wasted  soon, 
As  it  had  been  in  some  blessed  trance,  and  now  it 

is  noon. 
Hurry,  now  with  the  raft  !    But  0,  build  it  strong 

and  stanch, 
And  to  the  lines  and  treacherous  rocks  look  well  as 

you  launch  ! 
Over  the  foamy  tops  of  the  waves,  and  their  foam- 

sprent  sides, 
Over  the  hidden  reefs,  and  through  the  embattled 

tides, 
Onward  rushes  the  raft,  with  many  a  lurch  and 

leap,  — 
Lord  !  if  it  strike  him  loose   from  the  hold  he 

scarce  can  keep  ! 

No !  through  all  peril  unharmed,  it  reaches  him 

harmless  at  last, 
And  to  its  proven  strength  he  lashes  his  weakness 

fast 


Avery.  145 

Now,  for  the  shore  !    But  steady,  steady,  my  men, 

and  slow ; 
Taut,  now,  the  quivering  lines ;  now  slack ;  and 

so,  let  her  go  ! 
Thronging  the  shores  around   stand  the   pitying 

multitude ; 
Wan  as  his  own  are  their  looks,  and  a  nightmare 

seems  to  brood 
Heavy  upon  them,  and  heavy  the   silence  hangs 

on  all, 
Save  for  the  rapids'  plunge,  and  the  thunder  of 

the  fall. 
But  on  a  sudden  thrills  from  the  people  still  and 

pale, 

Chorussing  his  unheard  despair,  a  desperate  wail : 
Caught  on  a  lurking  point  of  rock  it  sways  and 

swings, 
Sport  of  the  pitiless  waters,  the  raft  to  which  he 

clings. 


in. 

All  the  long  afternoon  it  idly  swings  and  sways  ; 
And  on  the  shore  the  crowd  lifts  up  its  hands  and 

prays  : 
Lifts  to  heaven  and  wrings  the  hands  so  helpless 

to  save, 
7  J 


146  A  very. 

Prays  for  the  mercy  of  God  on  him  whom  the  rock 

and  the  wave 
Battle  for,  fettered  betwixt  them,  and  who,  amidst 

their  strife, 
Struggles  to  help  his  helpers,  and  fights  so  hard 

for  his  life,  — 
Tugging  at  rope  and  at  reef,  while  men  weep  and 

women  swoon. 

Priceless   second  by  second,  so  wastes  the  after- 
noon, 
And  it  is  sunset  now ;  and  another  boat  and  the 

last 
Down  to  him  from  the  bridge  through  the  rapids 

has  safely  passed. 


IV. 

Wild  through  the  crowd  comes  flying  a  man  that 

nothing  can  stay, 
Maddening  against  the  gate  that  is  locked  athwart 

his  way. 
"  No  !  we  keep  the  bridge  for  them  that  can  help 

him.     You, 
Tell  us,  who  are  you  1 "     "  His  brother  !  "     "  God 

help  you  both  !     Pass  through." 
Wild,  with  wide  arms  of  imploring  he  calls  aloud 

to  him, 


Avery.  147 

Unto  the   face  of  his  brother,  scarce  seen  in  the 

distance  dim ; 
But  in  the  roar  of  the  rapids  his  fluttering  words 

are  lost 
As  in  a  wind  of  autumn  the  leaves  of  autumn  are 

tossed. 
And  from  the  bridge  he  sees  his  brother  sever  the 

rope 
Holding  him  to  the  raft,  and  rise  secure  in  his 

hope ; 

Sees  all  as  in  a  dream  the  terrible  pageantry,  — 
Populous  shores,  the  woods,  the  sky,  the   birds 

flying  free ; 
Sees,  then,  the  form>  —  that,  spent  with  effort  and 

fasting  and  fear, 
Flings  itself  feebly  and  fails  of  the  boat  that  is 

lying  so  near,  — 
Caught  in  the  long-baffled  clutch  of  the  rapids, 

and  rolled  and  hurled 
Headlong  on  to  the  cataract's  brink,  and  out  of 

the  world. 


148  Bopeep :  A  Pastoral. 


BOPEEP:    A  PASTORAL. 

"  0,  to  what  uses  shall  we  pat 

The  wild  weed  flower  that  simply  blows  ? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ?  " 


I. 

SHE  lies  upon  the  soft,  enamoured  grass, 
I*  the  wooing  shelter  of  an  apple-tree, 
And  at  her  feet  the  tranced  brook  is  glass, 
And  in  the  blossoms  over  her  the  bee 
Hangs  charmed  of  his  sordid  industry  ; 
For  love  of  her  the  light  wind  will  not 


ii. 

Her  golden  hair,  blown  over  her  red  lips, 

That  seem  two  rose-leaves  softly  breathed  apart, 

Athwart  her  rounded  throat  like  sunshine  slips ; 
Her  small  hand,  resting  on  her  beating  heart, 
The  crook  that  tells  her  peaceful  shepherd-art 

Scarce  keeps  with  light  and  tremulous  finger-tips. 

in. 
She  is  as  fair  as  any  shepherdess 

That  ever  was  in  mask  or  Christmas  scene  : 


Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral.  149 

Bright  silver  spangles  hath  she  on  her  dress, 
And  of  her  red-heeled  shoes  appears  the  sheen ; 
And  she  hath  ribbons  of  such  blue  or  green 

As  best  suits  pastoral  people's  comeliness. 

IV. 

She  sleeps,  and  it  is  in  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  whole  land  is  full  of  the  delight 

Of  music  and  sweet  scents ;  and  all  the  day 
The  sun  is  gold ;  the  moon  is  pearl  all  night, 
And  like  a  paradise  the  world  is  bright, 

And  like  a  young  girl's  hopes  the  world  is  gay. 

v. 

So  waned  the  hours ;  and  while  her  beauteous  sleep 
Was  blest  with  many  a  happy  dream  of  Love, 

Untended  still,  her  silly,  vagrant  sheep 

Afar  from  that  young  shepherdess  did  rove, 
Along  the  vales  and  through  the  gossip  grove, 

O'er  daisied  meads  and  up  the  thymy  steep. 

VI. 

Then  (for  it  happens  oft  when  harm  is  nigh, 
Our  dreams  grow  haggard  till  at  last  we  wake) 

She  thought  that  from  the  little  runnel  by 
There  crept  upon  a  sudden  forth  a  snake, 
And  stung  her  hand,  and  fled  into  the  brake ; 

Whereat  she  sprang  up  with  a  bitter  cry, 


vn. 
And  wildly  orer  til  that  place  did  look, 

Ami  ivnM  not  spy  her  ingrate,  wanton  flock,  — 

here  among  tall  grasses  by  the  brook, 
Not  there  behind  the  mossy-bearded  rook  ; 
And  pitiless  Echo  answered  with  a  mock 

\Vlu-n  she  dul  MTIVU  that  sho  NX  as 


Vlll. 
Alas  '   tlu'  soattoivil  sluvp  mi-ht  not  Iv 

Aiul  long  and  loud  that  gentle  maid  did 
Till  in  her  blun*d  siglu  tho  lulls  uont 

ling  far,  field,  wood,  and  atroam  did 

An>l  on  the  ground  the  miaerable  Bopcop 
Fell  and  forgot  her  troubles  in  a  swound. 

DL 

\Vhon  sho  :nvAi\  thr  sun  bn-  tiino  haJ  N^ 
And  all  the  land  was  sleeping  in  t  ho  moon, 

And  all  the  flowers  with  dim,  sad  dews  were  wet, 
As  they  had  wept  to  see  her  in  that  swoon. 
It  was  about  the  night's  low-breathing  noon  ; 

Only  the  larger  start  wtrt  waking  j«t 

x. 
Bopeept  tK*  f^r  and  hapless  shepherdess, 

Kv  so  fivm  lu-r  IVej  :r.:i-  ::;  a  soiv  vl.smav, 


Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral.  151 

And  tried  to  smooth  her  damp  and  rumpled  dress, 
That  showed  in  truth  a  grievous  disarray ; 
Then  where  the  brook  the  wan  moon's  mirror  lay, 

She  laved  her  eyes,  and  curled  each  golden  tress. 

XI. 

And  looking  to  her  ribbons,  if  they  were 
As  ribbons  of  a  shepherdess  should  be, 

She  took  the  hat  that  she  was  wont  to  wear 
(Bedecked  it  was  with  ribbons  flying  free 
As  ever  man  in  opera  might  see), 

And  set  it  on  her  curls  of  yellow  hair. 

XII. 

"  And  I  will  go  and  seek  my  sheep,"  she  said, 
"  Through  every  distant  land  until  I  die  ; 

But  when  they  bring  me  hither,  cold  and  dead, 
Let  me  beneath  these  apple-blossoms  lie, 
With  this  dear,  faithful,  lovely  runnel  nigh, 

Here,  where  my  cru  —  cru  —  cruel  sheep  have  fed." 

XIII. 

Thus  sorrow  and  despair  make  bold  Bopeep, 
And  forth  she  springs,  and  hurries  on  her  way  : 

Across  the  lurking  rivulet  she. can  leap, 
No  sombre  forest  shall  her  quest  delay, 
No  crooked  vale  her  eager  steps  bewray : 

What  dreadeth  she  that  seeketh  her  lost  sheep  ? 


152  Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral. 

XIV. 

By  many  a  pond,  where  timorous  water-birds, 
With  clattering  cries  and  throbbing  wings,  arose, 

By  many  a  pasture,  where  the  soft-eyed  herds 
Looked  shadow-huge  in  their  unmoved  repose, 
Long  through  the  lonesome  night  that  sad  one 
goes 

And  fills  the  solitude  with  wailing  words ; 


xv. 

So  that  the  little  field-mouse  dreams  of  harm, 
Snuggled  away  from  harm  beneath  the  weeds ; 

The  violet,  sleeping  on  the  clover's  arm, 

Wakes,  and  is  cold  with  thoughts  of  dreadful 

deeds ; 
The  pensive  people  of  the  water-reeds 

Hark  with  a  mute  and  dolorous  alarm. 


XVI. 

And  the  fond  hearts  of  all  the  turtle-doves 
Are  broken  in  compassion  of  her  woe, 

And  every  tender  little  bird  that  loves 
Feels  in  his  breast  a  sympathetic  throe  ; 
And  flowers  are  sad  wherever  she  may  go, 

And  hoarse  with  sighs  the  waterfalls  and  groves. 


Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral.  153 

XVII. 

The  pale  moon  droppeth  low ;  star  after  star 
Grows  faint  and  slumbers  in  the  gray  of  dawn ; 

And  still  she  lingers  not,  but  hurries  far, 
Till  in  a  dreary  wilderness  withdrawn 
Through  tangled  woods  she  lorn  and  lost  moves 
on, 

Where  griffins  dire  and  dreadful  dragons  are. 


XVIII. 

Her  ribbons  all  are  dripping  with  the  dew, 

Her  red-heeled  shoes  are  torn,  and  stained  with 
mire, 

Her  tender  arms  the  angry  sharpness  rue 
Of  many  a  scraggy  thorn  and  envious  brier ; 
And  poor  Bopeep,  with  no  sweet  pity  nigh  her, 

Wrings  her  small  hands,  and  knows  not  what  to  do. 

XIX. 

And  on  that  crude  and  rugged  ground  she  sinks, 
And  soon  her  seeking  had  been  ended  there, 

But  through  the  trees  a  fearful  glimmer  shrinks, 
And  of  a  hermit's  dwelling  she  is  'ware  : 
At  the  dull  pane  a  dull-eyed  taper  blinks, 

Drowsed  with  long  vigils  and  the  morning  air. 


154  Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral. 

xx. 

Thither  she  trembling  moves,  and  at  the  door 
Falls  down,  and  cannot  either  speak  or  stir : 

The  hermit  comes,  —  with  no  white  beard  before, 
Nor  coat  of  skins,  nor  cap  of  shaggy  fur  : 
It  was  a  comely  youth  that  lifted  her, 

And  to  his  hearth,  and  to  his  breakfast,  bore. 

XXI. 

Arrayed  he  was  in  priuceliest  attire, 
And  of  as  goodly  presence  sooth  was  he 

As  any  little  maiden  might  admire, 
Or  any  king-beholding  cat  might  see 
"  My  poor  Bopeep,"  he  sigheth  piteously, 

"  Rest  here,  and  warm  you  at  a  hermit's  fire." 

XXII. 

She  looked  so  beautiful,  there,  mute  and  white, 
He  kissed  her  on  the  lips  and  on  the  eyes 

(The  most  a  prince  could  do  in  such  a  plight) ; 
But  chiefly  gazed  on  her  in  still  surprise, 
And  when  he  saw  her  lily  eyelids  rise, 

For  him  the  whole  world  had  no  fairer  sight. 

XXIII. 

"  Rude  is  my  fare  :  a  bit  of  venison  steak, 
A  dish  of  honey  and  a  glass  of  wine, 


Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral.  155 

With  clean  white  bread,  is  the  poor  feast  I  make. 
Be  served,  I  pray  :  I  think  this  flask  is  fine," 
He  said.     "  Hard  is  this  hermit  life  of  mine  : 

This  day  I  will  its  weariness  forsake." 

XXIV. 

And  then  he  told  her  how  it  chanced  that  he, 
King  Cole's  son,  in  that  forest  held  his  court, 

And  the  sole  reason  that  there  seemed  to  be 
Was,  he  was  being  hermit  there  for  sport; 
But  he  confessed  the  life  was  not  his  forte, 

And  therewith  both  laughed  out  right  jollily. 

XXV. 

And  sly  Bopeep  forgot  her  sheep  again 

In  gay  discourse  with  that  engaging  youth  : 

Love  hath  such  sovran  remedies  for  pain ! 

But  then  he  was  a  handsome  prince,  in  truth, 
And  both  were  young,  and  both  were  silly,  sooth, 

And  everything  to  Love  but  love  seems  vain. 

XXVI. 

They  took  them  down  the  silver-clasped  book 

That  this  young  anchorite's  predecessor  kept,  — 
A  holy  seer,  —  and  through  it  they  did  look ; 


156  Bopeep:  A  Pastoral. 

Sometimes  their  idle  eyes  together  crept, 
Sometimes  their  lips ;  but  still  the  leaves  they 

swept, 
Until  they  found  a  shepherd's  pictured  crook. 

XXVII. 

And  underneath  was  writ  it  should  befall. 

On  such  a  day,  in  such  a  month  and  year, 
A  maiden  fair,  a  young  prince  brave  and  tall, 

By  such  a  chance  should  come  together  here. 

They  were  the  people,  that  was  very  clear  : 
"  0  love,"  the  prince  said,  "  let  us  read  it  all !  " 

XXVIII. 

And  thus  the  hermit's  prophecy  ran  on  : 

Though  she  her  lost  sheep  wist  not  where  to  find, 

Yet  should  she  bid  her  weary  care  begone, 

And  banish  every  doubt  from  her  sweet  mind : 
They,  with  their  little  snow-white  tails  behind, 

Homeward  would  go,  if  they  were  left  alone. 

XXIX. 

They  closed  the  book,  and  in  her  happy  eyes 
The  prince  read  truth  and  love  forevennore,  — 

Better  than  any  hermit's  prophecies  ! 

They  passed  together  from  the  cavern's  door ; 
Embraced,  they  turned  to  look  at  it  once  more, 

And  over  it  beheld  the  glad  sun  rise, 


Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral.  157 

xxx. 

That  streamed  before  them  aisles  of  dusk  and  gold 
Under  the  song-swept  arches  of  the  wood, 

And  forth  they  went,  tranced  in  each  other's  hold, 
Down  through  that  rare  and  luminous  solitude, 
Their  happy  hearts  enchanted  in  the  mood 

Of  morning,  and  of  May,  and  romance  old. 

XXXI. 

Sometimes  the  saucy  leaves  would  kiss  her  cheeks, 
And  he  must  kiss  their  wanton  kiss  away ; 

To  die  beneath  her  feet  the  wood-flower  seeks, 
The  quivering  aspen  feels  a  fine  dismay, 
And  many  a  scented  blossom  on  the  spray 

In  odorous  sighs  its  passionate  longing  speaks. 

XXXII. 

And  forth  they  went  down  to  that  stately  stream, 
Bowed  over  by  the  ghostly  sycamores 

(Awearily,  as  if  some  heavy  dream 

Held  them  in  languor),  but  whose  opulent  shores 
With  pearled  shells  and  dusts  of  precious  ores 

Were  tremulous  brilliance  in  the  morning  beam ; 

XXXIII. 

Where  waited  them,  beside  the  lustrous  sand, 
A  silk-winged  shallop,  sleeping  on  the  flood ; 


158  Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral. 

And  smoothly  wafted  from  the  hither  strand, 
Across  the  calm,  broad  stream  they  lightly  rode, 
Under  them  still  the  silver  fishes  stood ; 

The  eager  lilies,  on  the  other  land, 

xxxiv. 

Beckoned  them ;  but  where  the  castle  shone 
With  diamonded  turrets  and  a  wall 

Of  gold-embedded  pearl  and  costly  stone, 
Their  vision  to  its  peerless  splendor  thrall 
The  maiden  fair,  the  young  prince  brave  and  tall, 

Thither  with  light,  unlingering  feet  pressed  on. 

XXXV. 

A  gallant  train  to  meet  this  loving  pair, 

In  silk  and  steel,  moves  from  the  castle  door, 

And  up  the  broad  and  ringing  castle  stair 
They  go  with  gleeful  minstrelsy  before, 
And  "  Hail  our  prince  and  princess  evermore  ! " 

From  all  the  happy  throng  is  greeting  there. 

xxxvi. 

And  in  the  hall  the  prince's  sire,  King  Cole, 
Sitting  with  crown  and  royal  ermine  on, 

His  fiddlers  three  behind  with  pipe  and  bowl, 
Rises  and  moves  to  lift  his  kneeling  son, 
Greeting  his  bride  with  kisses  many  a  one, 

And  tears  and  laughter  from  his  jolly  soul ; 


Bopeep  :  A  Pastoral.  159 

XXXVII. 

Then  both  his  children  to  a  window  leads 
That  over  daisied  pasture-land  looks  out, 

And  shows  Bopeep  where  her  lost  flock  wide  feeds, 
And  every  frolic  lambkin  leaps  about. 
She  hears  Boy-Blue,  that  lazy  shepherd,  shout, 

Slow  pausing  from  his  pipe  of  mellow  reeds ; 

XXXVIII. 

And,  turning,  peers  into  her  prince's  eyes ; 

Then,  caught  and  clasped  against  her  prince's 
heart, 

Upon  her  breath  her  answer  wordless  dies, 
And  leaves  her  gratitude  to  sweeter  art,  — 
To  lips  from  which  the  bloom  shall  never  part, 

To  looks  wherein  the  summer  never  dies ! 


160  While  she  sang. 


WHILE  SHE  SANG. 


SHE  sang,  and  I  heard  the  singing, 
Far  out  of  the  wretched  past, 
Of  meadow-larks  in  the  meadow, 
In  a  breathing  of  the  blast. 

Cold  through  the  clouds  of  sunset 
The  thin  red  sunlight  shone, 

Staining  the  gloom  of  the  woodland 
Where  I  walked  and  dreamed  alone ; 

And  glinting  with  chilly  splendor 

The  meadow  under  the  hill, 
Where  the  lingering  larks  were  lurking 

In  the  sere  grass  hid  and  still. 

Out  they  burst  with  their  singing, 
Their  singing  so  loud  and  gay ; 

They  made  in  the  heart  of  October 
A  sudden  ghastly  May, 

That  faded  and  ceased  with  their  singing. 
The  thin  red  sunlight  paled, 


While  she  sang.  161 

And  through  the  boughs  above  me 
The  wind  of  evening  wailed ;  — 

Wailed,  and  the  light  of  evening 

Out  of  the  heaven  died  ; 
And  from  the  marsh  by  the  river 

The  lonesome  killdee  cried. 


ii. 
The  song  is  done,  but  a  phantom 

Of  music  haunts  the  chords, 
That  thrill  with  its  subtile  presence, 

And  grieve  for  the  dying  words. 

And  in  the  years  that  are  perished, 
Far  back  in  the  wretched  past, 

I  see  on  the  May-green  meadows 
The  white  snow  falling  fast ;  — 

Falling,  and  falling,  and  falling, 

As  still  and  cold  as  death, 
On  the  bloom  of  the  odorous  orchard, 

On  the  small,  meek  flowers  beneath  ; 

On  the  roofs  of  the  village-houses, 

On  the  long,  silent  street, 
Where  its  plumes  are  soiled  and  broken 

Under  the  passing  feet ; 

K 


162  While  she  sang. 

On  the  green  crest  of  the  woodland, 
On  the  cornfields  far  apart ; 

On  the  cowering  birds  in  the  gable, 
And  on  my  desolate  heart. 


A  Poet.  163 


A  POET. 

FROM  wells  where  Truth  in  secret  lay 
He  saw  the  midnight  stars  by  day. 

"  0  marvellous  gift !  "  the  many  cried, 
"  0  cruel  gift !  "  his  voice  replied. 

The  stars  were  far,  and  cold,  and  high, 
That  glimmered  in  the  noonday  sky ; 

He  yearned  toward  the  sun  in  vain, 
That  warmed  the  lives  of  other  men. 


164  Convention. 


CONVENTION. 

TTE  falters  on  the  threshold, 

JL  JL  She  lingers  on  the  stair : 

Can  it  be  that  was  his  footstep  ? 

Can  it  be  that  she  is  there  1 

Without  is  tender  yearning, 

And  tender  love  is  within ; 
They  can  hear  each  other's  heart-beats, 

But  a  wooden  door  is  between. 


The  Poet's  Friends.  165 


THE  POET'S  FRIENDS. 

fTlHE  robin  sings  in  the  elm  ; 
-L      The  cattle  stand  beneath, 
Sedate  and  grave,  with  great  brown  eyes 
And  fragrant  meadow-breath. 

They  listen  to  the  flattered  bird, 
The  wise-looking,  stupid  things ; 

And  they  never  understand  a  word 
Of  all  the  robin  sings. 


166  No  Love  Lost. 

NO  LOVE  LOST. 
A  ROMANCE  OF  TRAVEL. 

1862. 
BERTHA — Writing  from  Venice. 


ON    your  heart   I   feign  myself   fallen  —  ah, 
heavier  burden, 
Darling,  of  sorrow  and  pain  than  ever  shall  rest 

there !    I  take  you 
Into  these  friendless  arms  of  mine,  that  you  cannot 

escape  me ; 
Closer  and  closer  I  fold  you,  and  tell  you  all,  and 

you  listen 
Just  as  you  used  at  home,  and  you  let  my  sobs 

and  my  silence 
Speak,  when  the  words  will  not  come  —  and  you 

understand  and  forgive  me. 
—  Ah !  no,  no  !   but  I  write,  with  the  wretched 

bravado  of  distance, 
What  you  must  read  unmoved  by  the  pity  too  fax 

for  entreaty. 


No  Love  Lost.  167 


n. 
Well,  I  could  never  have  loved  him,  but  when 

he  sought  me  and  asked  me,  — 
When  to  the  men  that  offered  their  lives,  the  love 

of  a  woman 
Seemed  so  little  to  give !  —  I  promised  the  love 

that  he  asked  me, 
Sent  him  to  war  with  my  kiss  on  his  lips,  and 

thought  him  my  hero. 

Afterward  came  the  doubt,  and  out  of  long  ques- 
tion, self-knowledge,  — 
Came   that  great   defeat,    and  the  heart  of  the 

nation  was  withered ; 
Mine   leaped  high  with   the  awful  relief  won  of 

death.     But  the  horror, 
Then,  of  the  crime  that  was  wrought  in  that  guilty 

moment  of  rapture,  — 
Guilty  as  if  my  will  had  winged  the  bullet  that 

struck  him,  — 
Clung  to  me  day  and  night,  and  dreaming  I  saw 

him  forever, 
Looking  through  battle-smoke  with  sorrowful  eyes 

of  upbraiding, 

Or,  in  the  moonlight  lying  gray,   or  dimly  ap- 
proaching, 
Holding  toward  me  his  arms,  that  still  held  nearer 

and  nearer, 


168  No  Love  Lost. 

Folded  about  me  at  last  .  .  .  and  I  would  I  had 
died  in  the  fever !  — 

Better  then  than  now,  and  better  than  ever  here- 
after ! 

in. 

Weary  as  some  illusion  of  fever  to  me  was  the 
ocean  — 

Storm-swept,  scourged  with  bitter  rains,  and  wan- 
dering always 

Onward  from  sky  to  sky  with  endless  processions 
of  surges, 

Knowing  not  life  nor  death,  but  since  the  light 
was,  the  first  day, 

Only  enduring  unrest  till  the  darkness  possess  it, 
the  last  day. 

Over  its  desolate  depths  we  voyaged  away  from  all 
living : 

All  the  world  behind  us  waned  into  vaguest  re- 
moteness ; 

Names,  and  faces,  and  scenes  recurred  like  that 
broken  remembrance 

Of  the  anterior,  bodiless  life  of  the  spirit,  —  the 
trouble 

Of  a  bewildered  brain,  or  the  touch  of  the  Hand 
that  created, — 

And  when  the  ocean  ceased  at  last  like  a  faded 
illusion, 


No  Love  Lost.  169 

Europe  itself  seemed  only  a  vision  of  eld  and  of 

sadness. 
Naught  but  the  dark  in  my  soul  remained  to  me 

constant  and  real, 
Growing  and  taking  the  thoughts  bereft  of  happier 

uses, 
Blotting  all  sense  of  lapse  from  the  days  that  with 

swift  iteration 
Were  and  were  not.     They  fable  the  bright  days 

the  fleetest  : 
These  that  had  nothing  to  give,  that  had  nothing 

to  bring  or  to  promise, 

Went  as  one  day  alone.     For  me  was  no  alter- 
nation 
Save  from  my  dull  despair  to  wild  and  reckless 

rebellion, 
When  the  regret  for  my  sin  was  turned  to  ruthless 

self-pity  — 
When  I  hated  him  whose  love  had  made  me  its 

victim, 
Through  his  faith  and  my  falsehood  yet  claiming 

me.     Then  I  was  smitten 
With  so  great  remorse,  such  grief  for  him,   and 

compassion, 
That,  if  he  could  have  come  back  to  me,  I  had 

welcomed  and  loved  him 
More  than  man  ever  was  loved.     Alas,  for  me  that 

another 


170  No  Love  Lost. 

Holds  his  place  in  my  heart  evermore !     Alas,  that 

I  listened 
When  the  words,  whose  daring  lured  my  spirit  and 

lulled  it, 
Seemed  to  take  my  blame  away  with  my  will  of 

resistance ! 


Do  not  make  haste  to  condemn  me  :  my  will 

was  the  will  of  a  woman,  — 
Fain  to  be  broken  by  love.     Yet  unto  the  last  I 

endeavored 
What  I  could  to  be  faithful  still  to  the  past  and 

my  penance ; 
And  as  we  stood  that  night  in  the  old  Roman 

garden  together — 
By  the  fountain  whose  passionate  tears  but  now 

had  implored  me 
In  his  pleading  voice  —  and  he  waited  my  answer, 

I  told  him 
All  that  had  been  before  of  delusion  and  guilt,  and 

conjured  him 
Not   to   darken  his  fate  with   mine.      The  costly 

endeavor 
Only  was  subtler  betrayal     O  me,  from  the  pang 

of  confession, 
Sprang  what  strange  delight,  as  I  tore  from  its 

lurking  that  horror  — 


No  Love  Lost.  171 

Brooded  upon  so  long  —  with   the  hope   that  at 

last  I  might  see  it 
Through   his  eyes,  unblurred   by  the   tears  that 

disordered  my  vision ! 
Oh,  with  what  rapturous  triumph  I  humbled  my 

spirit  before  him, 
That  he  might  lift  me  and  soothe  me,  and  make 

that  dreary  remembrance, 
All  this  confused  present,  seem  only  some  sickness 

of  fancy, 

Only  a  morbid  folly,  no  certain  and  actual  trouble ! 
If  from  that  refuge  I  fled  with  words  of  too  feeble 

denial  — 
Bade  him  hate  me,  with  sobs  that  entreated  his 

tenderest  pity, 
Moved  mute  lips  and  left  the  meaningless  farewell 

unuttered  — 

She  that  never  has  loved,  alone  can  wholly  con- 
demn me. 


IV. 

How  could  he  other  than  follow  ?  My  heart  had 
bidden  him  follow, 

Nor  had  my  lips  forbidden ;  and  Home  yet  glim- 
mered behind  me, 

When  my  soul  yearned  towards  his  from  the  sudden 
forlornness  of  absence. 


172  No  Love  Lost. 

Everywhere  his  face  looked  from  vanishing  glimpses 

of  faces, 
Everywhere  his  voice  reached  my  senses  in  fugitive 

cadence. 
Sick,    through   the  storied   cities,   with   wretched 

hopes,  and  upbraid  ings 
Of  my  own  heart  for  its  hopes,  I  went  from  wonder 

to  wonder, 
Blind  to  them  all,  or  only  beholding  them  wronged, 

and  related, 
Through  some  trick  of  wayward  thought,  to  myself 

and  my  trouble. 
Not  surprise  nor  regret,  but  a  fierce,  precipitate 

gladness 
Sent   the   blood  to  my  throbbing  heart  when   I 

found  him  in  Venice. 
"Waiting  for  you,"  he  whispered;    "you  would 

so."     I  answered  him  nothing. 

v. 

Father,  whose   humor  grows  more   silent  and 

ever  more  absent 
(Changed  in  all  but  love  for  me  since  the  death 

of  my  mother), 
Willing  to  see  me  contented  at  last,  and  trusting 

us  wholly, 
Left  us  together  alone  in  our  world  of  love  and  of 

beauty. 


No  Love  Lost.  173 

So,  by  noon  and  by  night,  we  two  have  wandered 

in  Venice, 
Where  the  beautiful   lives  in  vivid  and   constant 

caprices, 
Yet,  where  the  charm  is  so  perfect  that  nothing 

fantastic  surprises 
More  than  in  dreams,  and  one's  life  with  the  life 

of  the  city  is  blended 
In  a  luxurious  calm,  and  the  tumult  without  and 

beyond  it 
Seems  but  the  emptiest  fable  of  vain  aspiration 

and  labor. 


Yes,  from  all  that  makes  this  Venice  sole  among 

cities, 
Peerless  forever,  —  the  still  lagoons  that  sleep  in 

the  sunlight, 

Lulled  by  their   island-bells ;   the  night's  myste- 
rious waters 
Lit   through   their   shadowy   depths  by  stems   of 

splendor,  that  blossom 
Into    the    lamps   that    float,   like   flamy  lotuses, 

over ; 
Narrow  and   secret  canals,  that   dimly  gleaming 

and  glooming 
Under    palace-walls    and    numberless    arches    of 

bridges, 


174  No  Lave  Lost. 

List  no  sound  but  the  dip  of  the  gondolier's  oar 

and  his  warning 
Cried  from    corner    to  corner;   the   sad,    superb 

Canalazzo 
Mirroring  marvellous  grandeur  and  beauty,  and 

dreaming  of  glory 
Out  of  the  empty  homes  of  her  lords  departed ; 

the  footways 
Wandering  sunless  between  the  walls  of  the  houses, 

and  stealing 

Glimpses,  through  rusted  cancelli,  of  lurking  green- 
ness of  gardens, 

Wild-grown  flowers  and  broken  statues  and  moul- 
dering frescos ; 
Thoroughfares  filled  with  traffic,  and  throngs  ever 

ebbing  and  flowing 
To  and  from  the  heart  of  the  city,  whose  pride  and 

devotion, 
Lifting  high  the  bells  of  St.  Mark's  like  prayers 

unto  heaven, 
Stretch  a  marble  embrace  of  palaces  toward  the 

cathedral 
Orient,  gorgeous,  and  flushed  with  color  and  light, 

like  the  morning !  — 
From  the  lingering  waste  that  is  not  yet  ruin  in 

Venice, 
And  her  phantasmal  show,  through  all,  of  being 

and  doing  — 


No  Love  Lost.  175 

Came  a  strange  joy  to  us,  untouched  by  regret  for 

the  idle 
Days  without   yesterdays  that   died   into  nights 

without  morrows. 

Here,  in   our  paradise  of  love  we  reigned,  new- 
created, 
As  in  the  youth  of  the  world,  in  the  days  before 

evil  and  conscience. 
Ah !  in  our  fair,  lost  world  was  neither  fearing  nor 

doubting, 
Neither  the  sickness  of  old  remorse  nor  the  gloom 

of  foreboding,  — 

Only  the  glad  surrender  of  all  individual  being 
Unto  him  whom  I   loved,  and   in  whose   tender 

possession, 
Fate-free,  my  soul  reposed  from  its  anguish. 

—  Of  these  things  I  write  you 
As  of  another's  experience;  part  of  my  own  they 

no  longer 
Seem  to  me  now,  through  the  doom  that  darkens 

the  past  like  the  future. 

VI. 

Golden    the    sunset    gleamed,   above    the   city 

behind  us, 

Out  of  a  city  of  clouds  as  fairy  and  lovely  as 
Venice, 


176  No  Love  Lost. 

While  we  looked  at  the  fishing-sails  of  purple  and 

yellow 
^Far  on  the  rim  of  the  sea,  whose  light  and  musical 

surges 
Broke   along    the   sands  with    a    faint,    rcitcrant 

sadness. 
But,  when  the  sails  had  darkened  into  black  wings, 

through  the  twilight 
Sweeping  away  into  night  —  past  the  broken  tombs 

of  the  Hebrews 

Homeward   we    sauntered    slowly,   through    dew- 
sweet,  blossomy  alleys; 
So   drew  near  the   boat   by   errant   and  careless 

approaches, 
Entered,  and  left  with  indolent  pulses  the  Lido 

behind  us. 


All  the  sunset  had  paled,  and  the  campanili 

of  Venice 
Rose  like  the  masts  of  a  mighty  fleet  moored  there 

in  the  water. 
Lights  flashed   furtively  to  and  fro  through  the 

deepening  twilight. 
Massed  in  one  thick  shade  lay  the  Gardens ;  the 

numberless  islands 
Lay  like  shadows  upon  the  lagoons.     And  on  us 

as  we  loitered 


No  Love  Lost.  177 

By  their  enchanted   coasts,   a  spell   of   ineffable 

sweetness 
Fell  and  made  us  at  one  with  them  ;   and  silent 

and  blissful 
Shadows  we   seemed,  that   drifted  on  through   a 

being  of  shadow, 
Vague,  indistinct  to  ourselves,  unbounded  by  hope 

or  remembrance. 
Yet  we  knew  the  beautiful  night,  as  it  grew  from 

the  evening  : 
Far  beneath  us  and  far  above  us  the  vault  of  the 

heavens 
Glittered  and  darkened;  and  now  the  moon,  that 

had  haunted  the  daylight 
Thin  and  pallid,  dimmed  the  stars  with  her  fulness 

of  splendor, 
And  over  all  the  lagoons  fell  the  silvery  rain  of  the 

moonbeams, 
As  in  the  song  the  young  girls  sang  while  their 

gondolas  passed  us,  — 
Sang  in  the  joy  of  love,  or  youth's  desire  of  loving. 

Balmy  night  of  the  South !     0  perfect  night  of 

the  Summer ! 
Night  of  the  distant  dark,  of  the  near  and  tender 

effulgence !  — 

How  from  my  despair  are  thy  peace  and  loveliness 
frightened ! 

12 


178  No  Love  Lost. 

For,  while  our  boat  lay  there  at  the  will  of  the 

light  undulations, 
Idle  as  if  our  mood  imbued  and   controlled   it, 

yet  ever 
Seeming    to    bear    us  on  athwart  those   shining 

expanses 

Out  to  shining  seas  beyond  pursuit  or  returning  — 
There,  while  we  lingered,  and  lingered,  and  would 

not  break  from  our  rapture, 
Down  the  mirrored  night  another  gondola  drifted 
Nearer  and  slowly  nearer  our  own,  and  moonlighted 

faces 
Stared.     And  that  sweet  trance  grew  a  rigid  and 

dreadful  possession, 
Which,  if  no  dream  indeed,  yet  mocked  with  such 

semblance  of  dreaming, 
That,  as  it  happens  in  dreams,  when  a  dear  face, 

stooping  to  kiss  us, 
Takes,  ere  the  lips  have  touched,  some  malign  and 

horrible  aspect, 
His  face  faded  away,  and  the  face  of  the  Dead  — 

of  that  other  — 
Flashed   on   mine,    and   writhing,   through    every 

change  of  emotion,  — 
Wild   amaze   and    scorn,   accusation  and    pitiless 

mocking,  — 

Vanished  into  the  swoon  whose  blackness  encom- 
passed and  hid  me. 


No  Love  Lost.  179 


PHILIP  —  To  Bertha. 

I  AM  not  sure,  I  own,  that  if  first  I  had  seen 

my  delusion 
When  I  saw  you,  last  night,  I  should  be  so  ready 

to  give  you 
!N"ow  your  promises  back,  and  hold  myself  nothing 

above  you, 
That  it  is  mine  to  offer  a  freedom  you  never  could 

ask  for. 
Yet,  believe  me,  indeed,  from  no  bitter  heart  I 

release  you  : 
You  are  as  free  of  me  now  as  though  I  had  died 

in  the  battle, 
Or  as  I  never  had  lived.     Nay,  if  it  is  mine  to 

forgive  you, 
Go  without  share  of  the  blame  that  could  hardly 

be  all  upon  your  side. 

Ghosts  are  not  sensitive  things ;  yet,  after  my 
death  in  the  papers, 

Sometimes  a  harrowing  doubt  assailed  this  impal- 
pable essence  : 

Had  I  done  so  well  to  plead  my  cause  at  that 
moment, 

When  your  consent  must  be  yielded  less  to  the 
lover  than  soldier  1 


180  No  Love  Lost. 

"Not  so  well,"  I  was  answered  by  that  ethereal 

conscience 
Ghosts  have  about  them,   "and  not  so  nobly  or 

wisely  as  might  be." 
—  Truly,  I  loved  you,  then,  as  now  I  love  you  no 

longer. 

I  was  a  prisoner  then,  and  this  doubt  in  the 

languor  of  sickness 
Came ;   and   it   clung  to  my  convalescence,   and 

grew  to  the  purpose, 
After  my  days  of  captivity  ended,  to  seek  you  and 

solve  it, 
And,  if  I  haply  had  erred,  to  undo  the  wrong,  and 

release  you. 

Well,  you  have  solved  me  the  doubt.     I  dare  to 

trust  that  you  wept  me, 
Just  a  little,  at  first,  when  you  heard  of  me  dead 

in  the  battle? 
For  we  were  plighted,  you  know,  and  even  in  this 

saintly  humor, 
I  would  scarce  like  to  believe  that  my  loss  had 

merely  relieved  you. 
Yet,  I  say,  it  was  prudent  and  well  not  to  wait  for 

my  coming 
Back  from  the  dead.     If  it  may  be  I  sometimes 

had  cherished  a  fancy 


No  Love  Lost.  181 

That  I  had  won  some  right  to  the  palm  with  the 
pang  of  the  martyr,  — 

Fondly  intended,  perhaps,  some  splendor  of  self- 
abnegation,  — 

Doubtless  all  that  was  a  folly  which  merciful 
chances  have  spared  me. 

No,  I  am  far  from  complaining  that  Circumstance 
coolly  has  ordered 

Matters  of  tragic  fate  in  such  a  commonplace 
fashion. 

How  do  I  know,  indeed,  that  the  easiest  is  n't  the 
best  way  1 

Friendly  adieux  end  this  note,  and  our   little 
comedy  with  it. 


FANNY —  To  Clara. 

i. 

YES,  I  promised  to  write,  but  how  shall  I  write 

to  you,  darling] 
Venice  we  reached  last  Monday,  wild  for  canals 

and  for  color, 
Palaces,   prisons,  lagoons,  and  gondolas,  bravoes, 

and  moonlight, 
All  the  mysterious,  dreadful,  beautiful  things  in 

existence. 


182  No  Love  Lost. 

Fred  had  joined  us  at  Naples,  insuff  'rably  knowing 

and  travelled, 

Wise  in  the  prices  of  things  and  great  at  tempes- 
tuous bargains, 
Rich  in  the  costly  nothing  our  youthful  travellers 

buy  here, 
At  a  prodigious  outlay  of  time  and  money  and 

trouble ; 
Utter  confusion  of  facts,  and  talking  the  wildest  of 

pictures,  — 
Pyramids,  battle-fields,  bills,  and  examinations  of 

luggage, 
Passports,   policemen,   porters,   and    how  he    got 

through  his  tobacco,— 

Ignorant,  handsome,  full-bearded,  brown,  and  good- 
natured  as  ever : 
Annie  thinks  him  perfect,  and  I  well  enough  for 

a  brother. 
Also,  a  friend  of  Fred's  came  with  us  from  Naples 

to  Venice ; 
And,  altogether,  I  think,  we  are  rather  agreeable 

people, 
For  we  Ve  been  taking  our  pleasure  at  all  times  in 

perfect  good-humor ; 
Which  is  an  excellent  thing  that  you'll  understand 

when  you  Ve  travelled, 
Seen  Recreation  dead-beat  and  cross,  and  learnt 

what  a  burden 


No  Love  Lost.  183 

Frescos,  for  instance,  can  be,  and,  in  general,  what 

an  affliction 
Life  is  apt  to  become  among  the  antiques  and  old 

masters. 

Venice  we  've  thoroughly  done,  and  it 's  perfectly 

true  of  the  pictures  — 
Titians  and    Tintorettos,   and  Palmas  and    Paul 

Veroneses ; 

Neither  are  gondolas  fictions,  but  verities,  hearse- 
like  and  swan-like, 
Quite  as  the  heart  could  wish.     And  one  finds,  to 

one's  infinite  comfort, 
Venice  just  as  unique  as  one's  fondest  visions  have 

made  it  : 
Palaces    and     mosquitoes    rise    from    the    water 

together, 
And,  in  the  city's  streets,  the  salt-sea  is  ebbing 

and  flowing 
Several  inches  or  more. 

—  Ah !   let  me  not  wrong  thee,  0  Venice ! 
Fairest,  forlornest,  and  saddest  of  all  the  cities,  and 

dearest ! 
Dear,  for  my  heart  has  won  here  deep  peace  from 

cruel  confusion ; 
And  in  this  lucent  air,  whose  night  is  but  tenderer 

noon-day, 


184  ^o  Love  Lost. 

Fear  is  forever  dead,  and  hope  has  put  on  the 

immortal ! 
—  There  !  and  you  need  not  laugh.     I  'm  coming 

to  so  me  tli  ing  directly. 
One  thing  :  I  've  bought  you  a  chain  of  the  famous 

fabric  of  Venice  — 
Something   peculiar  and  quaint,   and  of  such   a 

delicate  texture 
That  you  must  wear  it  embroidered  upon  a  riband 

of  velvet, 

If  you  would  have  the  effect  of  its  exquisite  fine- 
ness and  beauty. 
"  Is  n't  it  very  frail  1 "  I  asked  of  the  workman  who 

made  it. 
"Strong  enough,  if  you  will,   to  bind  a  lover, 

signora,"  — 
With  an  expensive  smile.      'T  was  bought  near 

the  Bridge  of  Rialto. 
(Shylock,  you  know.)     In  our  shopping,  Aunt  May 

and  Fred  do  the  talking : 
Fred  begins  always   in    French,   with    the  most 

delicious  effrontVy, 
Only    to    end    in    profoundest    humiliation    and 

English. 
Aunt,  however,  scorns  to  speak  any  tongue  but 

Italian  : 
"Quanto  per  these  ones  herel"  and  "What  did 

you  say  was  the  prezzo  1 " 


No  Love  Lost.  185 

"  Ah !   troppo  caro  !    Too  much  !  No,  no  !   Don't  I 

tell  you  it 's  troppo  ] " 
All  the   while   insists  that    the    gondolieri   shall 

show  us 
What  she  calls  Titian's  palazzo,  and  pines  for  the 

house  of  Othello. 
Annie,  the  dear  little  goose,  believes  in  Fred  and 

her  mother 
With  an  enchanting  abandon.     She  does  n't  at  all 

understand  them, 
But  she  has  some  twilight  views  of  their  cleverness. 

Father  is  quiet, 
Now   and   then  ventures   some   French   when   he 

fancies  that  nobody  hears  him, 
In  an  aside  to  the  valet-de-place  —  I  never  detect 

him  — 
Buys   things   for  mother   and    me   with   a    quite 

supernatural  sweetness, 
Tolerates   all    Fred's    airs,    and    is    indispensably 

pleasant. 

ii. 

Prattling   on   of   these   things,   which   I   think 

cannot  interest  deeply, 
So  I  hold  back  in  my  heart  its  dear  and  wonderful 

secret 
(Which  I  must  tell  you  at  last,  however  I  falter 

to  tell  you), 


186  No  Love  Lost. 

Fain  to  keep  it  all  my  own  for  a  little  while 
longer,  — 

Doubting  but  it  shall  lose  some  part  of  its  strange- 
ness and  sweetness, 

Shared  with  another,  and  fearful  that  even  you 
may  not  find  it 

Just  the  marvel  that  I  do  —  and  thus  turn  our 
friendship  to  hatred. 


Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  this  love,  which 

I  feel  is  eternal, 
Must  have  begun  with  my  life,  and  that  only  an 

absence  was  ended 
When  we  met  and  knew  in  our  souls  that  we  loved 

one  another. 
For  from  the  first  was  no  doubt.      The  earliest 

hints  of  the  passion, 
Whispered  to  girlhood's  tremulous  dream,  may  be 

mixed  with  misgiving, 

But,  when  the  very  love  comes,  it  bears  no  vague- 
ness of  meaning ; 
Touched  by  its  truth  (too  fine  to  be  felt  by  the 

ignorant  senses, 
Knowing  but  looks  and  utterance)  soul  unto  soul 

makes  confession, 
Silence  to  silence  speaks.     And  I  think  that  this 

subtile  assurance, 


JVb  Love  Lost.  187 

Yet  unconfirmed  from   without,  is   even  sweeter 

and  dearer 
Than  the   perfected  bliss  that   comes   when  the 

words  have  been  spoken. 
—  Not  that  I  'd   have   them  unsaid,  now  !     But 

't  was  delicious  to  ponder 
All  the  miracle  over,  and  clasp  it,  and  keep  it,  and 

hide  it,  — 
While   I  beheld  him,   you  know,   with  looks  of 

indifferent  languor, 
Talking    of    other    things,    and    felt    the    divine 

contradiction 
Trouble  my  heart  below! 


And    yet,   if   no  doubt  touched    our 

passion, 
Do  not  believe  for  that,  our  love  has  been  wholly 

unclouded. 
All  best  things  are  ours  when  pain  and  patience 

have  won  them : 
Peace  itself  would  mean  nothing  but  for  the  strife 

that  preceded; 
Triumph  of  love  is  greatest,  when  peril  of  love  has 

been  sorest. 
(That 's  to  say,  I  dare  say.     I  'm  only  repeating 

what  he  said.) 


188  No  Love  Lost. 

Well,  then,  of  all  wretched  things  in  the  world, 

a  mystery,  Clara, 
Lurked  in  this  life  dear  to  mine,  and  hopelessly 

held  us  asunder 
When  we  drew  nearest  together,  and  all  but  his 

speech  said,  "  I  love  you." 
Fred  had   known   him  at  college,  and   then  had 

found   him   at  Naples, 
After  several  years,  —  and  called  him  a  capital 

fellow. 
Thus  far  his  knowledge  went,  and  beyond  this 

began  to  run  shallow 
Over  troubled  ways,  and  to  break  into  brilliant 

conjecture, 
Harder  by  far  to  endure  than  the  other's  reticent 

absence  — 
Absence  wherein  at  times  he  seemed  to  walk  like 

one  troubled 
By  an  uneasy  dream,  whose  spell  is  not  broken 

with  waking, 
But  it  returns  all  day  with  a  vivid  and  sudden 

recurrence, 
Like  a  remembered  event.     Of  the  past  that  was 

closest  the  present, 
This   we   knew  from    himself:    He  went   at  the 

earliest  summons, 
When  the  Rebellion  began,  and  falling,  terribly 

wounded, 


No  Love  Lost.  189 

Into  the  enemy's  hands,  after  ages  of  sickness  and 

prison, 
Made  his  escape  at  last ;  and,  returning,  found  all 

his  virtues 

Grown  out  of  recognition  and  shining  in  posthu- 
mous splendor, — 
Found  all  changed  and  estranged,  and,  he  fancied, 

more  wonder  than  welcome. 
So,  somewhat  heavy  of  heart,  and  disabled  for  war, 

he  had  wandered 
Hither  to  Europe  for  perfecter  peace.     Abruptly 

his  silence, 
Full  of  suggestion  and  sadness,  made  here  a  chasm 

between  us ; 
But  we  spanned  the   chasm  with   conversational 

bridges, 
Else  talked  all  around  it,  and  feigned  an  ignorance 

of  it, 
With  that  absurd  pretence  which   is   always   so 

painful,  or  comic, 
Just  as  you  happen  to  make  it  or  see  it. 


In  spite  of  our  fictions, 
Severed  from  his  by  that  silence,  my  heart  grew 

ever  more  anxious, 
Till  last  night  when  together  we  sat  in  Piazza  San 

Marco 


190  No  Love  Lost. 

(Then,  when  the  morrow  must  bring  us  parting  — 

forever,  it  might  be), 
Taking  our  ices  al  fresco.     Some  strolling  minstrels 

were  singing 
Airs  from  the   Trovatore.     I   noted  with  painful 

observance, 
With    the   unwilling    minuteness  at    such    times 

absolute  torture, 
All  that  brilliant  scene,  for  which  I  cared  nothing, 

before  me : 

Dark-eyed  Venetian  leoni  regarding  the  forestieri 
With    those   compassionate   looks  of   gentle  and 

curious  wonder 
Home-keeping  Italy's  nations  bend  on  the  voyaging 

races, — 
Taciturn,   indolent,  sad,   as  their    beautiful   city 

itself  is  ; 

Groups  of  remotest  English  — not  just  the  tra- 
ditional English 
(Lavish  Milor  is  no  more,   and   your  travelling 

Briton  is  frugal)  — 
English,  though,  after  all,  with  the  Channel  always 

between  them, 
Islanded  in  themselves,  and  the  Continent's  sociable 

races; 

Country-people  of  ours  —  the  New  World's  confi- 
dent children, 
Proud  of  America  always,  and  even  vain  of  the 

Troubles 


No  Lave  Lost.  191 

As  of  disaster  laid  out  on  a  scale  unequalled  in 

Europe ; 
Polyglot  Russians  that  spoke  all  languages  better 

than  natives ; 
White-coated  Austrian  officers,  anglicized  Austrian 

dandies ; 
Gorgeous  Levantine  figures  of  Greek,  and  Turk, 

and  Albanian  — 
These,  and  the  throngs  that  moved  through  the 

long  arcades  and  Piazza, 
Shone  on  by  numberless  lamps  that  flamed  round 

the  perfect  Piazza, 

Jewel-like  set  in  the  splendid  frame  of  this  beauti- 
ful picture, 
Full    of    such    motley    life,    and    so    altogether 

Venetian. 

Then  we  rose  and  walked  where  the  lamps  were 

blanched  by  the  moonlight 
Flooding  the  Piazzetta  with  splendor,  and  throwing 

in  shadow 
All  the  fagade  of  Saint  Mark's,  with  its  pillars,  and 

horses,  and  arches; 
But  the  sculptured  frondage,  that  blossoms  over 

the  arches 
Into  the  forms  of  saints,  was  touched  with  tenderest 

lucence, 
And  the  angel  that  stands  on  the  crest  of  the  vast 

campanile 


192  No  Love 

Bathed  his  golden  vans  in  the  liquid  light  of  the 

moonbeams. 
Black  rose  the  granite  pillars  that  lift  the  Saint 

and  the  Lion ; 
Black  sank  the  island  campanili  from  distance  to 

distance  ; 
Over  the  charmed  scene  there  brooded  a  presence 

of  music, 
Subtler  than  sound,  and  felt,  unheard,  in  the  depth 

of  the  spirit. 

How  can  I  gather  and  show  you  the  airy  threads 

of  enchantment 
Woven   that    night   round    my  life  and    forever 

wrought   into   my   being, 
As  in  our  boat  we  glided  away  from  the  glittering 

city? 
Dull  at  heart  I  felt,  and  I  looked  at  the  lights  in 

the  water, 
Blurring    their    brilliance   with    tears,   while   the 

tresses  of  eddying  seaweed, 
Whirled   in   the   ebbing  tide,  like  the  tresses  of 

sea-maidens  drifting 

Seaward  from  palace-haunts,  in  the  moonshine  glis- 
tened and  darkened. 

Sad  and  vague  were  my  thoughts,  and   full  of 
fear  was  the  silence ; 


No  Love  Lost.  193 

And,  when  he  turned  to  speak  at  last,  I  trembled 

to  hear  him, 
Feeling  he  now  must  speak  of  his  love,  and  his 

life  and  its  secret, — 
Now  that  the  narrowing  chances  had  left  but  that 

cruel  conclusion, 
Else  the  life-long  ache  of  a  love  and  a  trouble 

unuttered. 
Better,  my  feebleness  pleaded,  the  dreariest  doubt 

that  had  vexed  me, 
Than  my  life  left  nothing,  not  even  a  doubt  to 

console  it ; 
But,  while  I  trembled  and   listened,  his   broken 

words  crumbled  to  silence, 
And,  as  though  some  touch  of  fate  had  thrilled  him 

with  warning, 
Suddenly  from  me  he  turned.     Our  gondola  slipped 

from  the  shadow 

Under  a  ship  lying  near,  and  glided  into  the  moon- 
light, 
Where,  in  its  brightest  lustre,    another  gondola 

rested. 
7  saw  two  lovers  there,  and  he,  in  the  face  of  the 

woman, 
Saw  what  has  made  him  mine,  my  own  beloved, 

forever ! 
Mine  !  —  but  through  what  tribulation,  and  awful 

confusion  of  spirit ! 
13 


194  No  Love  Lost. 

Tears  that  I  think  of  with  smiles,  and  sighs  I 

remember  with  laughter, 

Agonies  full  of  absurdity,  keen,  ridiculous  anguish, 
Ending  in  depths  of  blissful  shame,  and  heavenly 

transports ! 

in. 

White,  and  estranged  as  a  man  who  has  looked 
on  a  spectre,  he  mutely 

Sank    to    the    place  at  my  side,   nor  while  we 
returned  to  the  city 

Uttered  a  word  of  explaining,   or  comment,   or 
comfort,  but  only, 

With  his  good-night,  incoherently  craved  my  for- 
giveness and  patience, 

Parted,  and  left  me  to  spend  the  night  in  hysterical 
vigils, 

Tending   to  Annie's  supreme  dismay,   and  post- 
poning our  journey 

One  day  longer  at  least ;  for  I  went  to  bed  in  the 
morning, 

Firmly  rejecting    the    pity   of   friends,   and    the 
pleasures  of  travel, 

Fixed  in  a  dreadful  purpose  never  to  get  any 
better. 

Later,  however,  I  rallied,  when   Fred,  with  a 
maddening  prologue 


No  Love  Lost.  195 

Touching  the  cause  of  my  sickness,  including  his 

fever  at  Jaffa, 
Told  me  that  some  one  was  waiting ;  and  could  he 

see  me  a  moment  1 
See  me  1     Certainly  not.     Or,  — yes.    But  why  did 

he  want  to  ? 
So,  in  the  dishabille  of  a  morning-gown  and  an 

arm-chair, 
Languid,   with   eloquent   wanness   of  eye   and  of 

cheek,  I  received  him  — 
Willing  to  touch  and  reproach,  and  half-melted 

myself  by  my  pathos, 
Which,  with  a  reprobate  joy,  I  wholly  forgot  the 

next  instant, 
When,  with  electric  words,  few,  swift,  and  vivid,  he 

brought  me, 
Through  a  brief  tempest  of  tears,  to  this  heaven  of 

sunshine  and  sweetness. 


Yes,  he  had  looked  on  a  ghost  —  the  phantom 

of  love  that  was  perished !  — 
When,  last  night,  he  beheld  the  scene  of  which 

I  have  told  you. 
For  to  the  woman  he  saw  there,  his  troth  had  been 

solemnly  plighted 
Ere  he  went  to  the  war.     His  return  from  the  dead 

found  her  absent 


196  No  Love  Lost. 

In  the  belief  of  his  death ;  and  hither  to  Europe  he 

followed,  — 
Followed  to  seek  her,  and  keep,  if  she  would,  the 

promise  between  them, 
Or,  were  a  haunting  doubt  confirmed,  to  break  it 

and  free  her. 
Then,  at  Naples  we  met,  and  the  love  that;  before 

he  was  conscious, 
Turned  his  life  toward  mine,  laid  torturing  stress 

to  the  purpose 
Whither  it  drove  him  forever,  and  whence  forever 

it  swerved  him. 
How  could  he  tell  me  his  love,  with  this  terrible 

burden  upon  him  ? 
How  could  he  linger  near  me,  and  still  withhold 

the  avowal  1 
And  what  ruin  were  that,  if  the  other  were  doubted 

unjustly, 
And  should  prove  fatally  true!     With  shame,  he 

confessed  he  had  faltered, 
Clinging  to  guilty  delays,  and  to  hopes  that  were 

bitter  with  treason, 
Up  to  the  eve  of  our  parting.     And  then  the  last 

anguish  was  spared  him. 
Her  love  for  him  was  dead.     But  the  heart  that 

leaped  in  his  bosom 
With  a  great,  dumb  throb  of  joy  and  wonder  and 

doubting, 


No  Love  Lost.  197 

Still  must  yield  to  the  spell  of  his  silencing  will 

till  that  phantom 
Proved  an  actual  ghost  by  common-place  tests  of 

the  daylight, 
Such  as  speech  with  the  lady's  father. 

And  now,  could  I  pardon  — 
Nay,  did  I  think  I  could  love  him  1    I  sobbingly 

answered,  I  thought  so. 
And  we  are   all   of  us  going  to   Lago   di   Como 

to-morrow, 
With   an   ulterior    view   at    the   first    convenient 

Legation. 

Patientest  darling,  good-by !     Poor  Fred,  whose 

sense  of  what's  proper 
Never  was  touched  till  now,  is  shocked  at  my  glad 

self-betrayals, 
And  I   am  pointed  out  as  an  awful  example  to 

Annie, 
Figuring  all  she  must  never  be.     But,  oh,  if  he 

loves  me !  — 


198  No  Love  Lost. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Since,  he  has  shown  me  a  letter  in  which  he 

absolves  and  forgives  her 
(Philip,  of  course,  not   Fred ;  and  the  other,  of 

course,  and  not  Annie). 
Don't  you   think  him  generous,  noble,  unselfish, 

heroic  1 


L'ENVOY.  —  Clara's  Comment. 

Well,  I  'm  glad,  I  am  sure,  if  Fanny  supposes  she 's 

happy. 
I '  vo  no  doubt  her  lover  is  good  and  noble  —  as 

men  go. 
But,  as  regards   his  release   of  a  woman  who'd 

wholly  forgot  him, 
And  whom  he  loved  no  longer,  for  one  whom  he 

loves,  and  who  loves  him, 
/  don't  exactly  see  where  the  heroism  commences. 


The  Song  the  Oriole  Sings.  199 


THE  SONG  THE  ORIOLE  SINGS. 

THERE  is  a  bird  that  comes  and  sings 
In  the  Professor's  garden-trees ; 
Upon  the  English  oak  he  swings, 
And  tilts  and  tosses  in  the  breeze. 

I  know  his  name,  I  know  his  note, 
That  so  with  rapture  takes  my  soul ; 

Like  flame  the  gold  beneath  his  throat, 
His  glossy  cope  is  black  as  coal. 

0  oriole,  it  is  the  song 

You  sang  me  from  the  cottonwood, 
Too  young  to  feel  that  I  was  young, 

Too  glad  to  guess  if  life  were  good. 

And  while  I  hark,  before  my  door, 
Adown  the  dusty  Concord  Road, 

The  blue  Miami  flows  once  more 
As  by  the  cottonwood  it  flowed. 

And  on  the  bank  that  rises  steep, 
And  pours  a  thousand  tiny  rills, 

From  death  and  absence  laugh  and  leap 
My  school-mates  to  their  flutter-mills. 


200  The  Song  the  Oriole  Sings. 

The  blackbirds  jangle  in  the  tops 

Of  hoary-an  tiered  sycamores ; 
The  timorous  killdeo  starts  and  stops 

Among  the  drift-wood  on  the  shores. 

Below,  the  bridge  —  a  noonday  fear 
Of  dust  and  shadow  shot  with  sun — 

Stretches  its  gloom  from  pier  to  pier, 
Far  unto  alien  coasts  unknown. 

And  on  those  alien  coasts,  above, 

Where  silver  ripples  break  the  stream's 

Long  blue,  from  some  roof-sheltering  grove 
A  hidden  parrot  scolds  and  screams. 

Ah,  nothing,  nothing !     Commonest  things  : 
A  touch,  a  glimpse,  a  sound,  a  breath  — 

It  is  a  song  the  oriole  sings  — 
And  all  the  rest  belongs  to  death. 

But  oriole,  my  oriole, 

Were  some  bright  seraph  sent  from  bliss 
With  songs  of  heaven  to  win  my  soul 

From  simple  memories  such  as  this, 

What  could  he  tell  to  tempt  my  ear 

From  youl    What  high  thing  could  there  be, 

So  tenderly  and  sweetly  dear 
As  my  lost  boyhood  is  to  me  1 


Pordenone.  201 


POEDENONE. 

i. 

HARD  by  the  Church  of  Saint  Stephen,  in  sole 
and  beautiful  Venice, 

Under  the  colonnade  of  the  Augustinian  Convent, 
Every  day,  as  I  passed,  I  paused  to  look  at  the 

frescos 
Painted  upon  the  ancient  walls  of  the  court  of  the 

Convent 
By  a  great  master  of  old,  who  wore  his  sword  and 

his  dagger 
While  he  wrought  the  figures  of  patriarchs,  martyrs, 

and  virgins 
Into  the  sacred  and  famous  scenes  of  Scriptural 

story. 

II. 

Long  ago  the  monks  from  their  snug  self-devotion 

were  driven, 
Wistful  and  fat  and   slow :   looking  backward,  I 

fancied  them  going 
Out  through  the  sculptured  doorway,  and  down  the 

Ponte  de'  Frati, 


202  Pordenone. 

Cowled  and  sandalled  and  beaded,  a  plump  and 

pensive  procession; 
And    in  my   day  their   cells  were    barracks  for 

Austrian  soldiers, 
Who  in  their  turn  have  followed  the  Augustinian 

Friars. 
As  to  the  frescos,  little  remained  of  work  once  so 

perfect. 
Summer  and  winter  weather  of  some  three  cycles 

had  wasted ; 
Plaster  had  fallen,  and  left  unsightly  blotches  of 

ruin; 
Wanton  and  stupid  neglect  had  done  its  worst  to 

the  pictures : 
Yet    to    the  sympathetic  and  reverent  eye  was 

apparent  — 
Where  the  careless  glance  but  found,  in  expanses 

of  plaster, 

Touches  of  incoherent  color  and  lines  interrupted  — 
Somewhat  still  of  the  life  of  surpassing  splendor 

and  glory 
Filling  the  frescos  once;  and  here  and  there  was 

a  figure, 
Standing  apart,  and  out  from  the  common  decay 

and  confusion, 
Flushed   with  immortal    youth    and    ineffaceable 

beauty, 
Such  as  that  figure  of  Eve  in  pathetic  expulsion 

from  Eden, 


Pordenone.  203 

Taking  —  the  tourist  remembers  —  the   wrath   of 

Heaven  al  fresco, 
As  is  her  well-known  custom  in  thousands  of  acres 

of  canvas. 


ITI. 

I  could  make  out  the   much-bepainted    Biblical 

subjects, 
When  I  had  patience  enough  :   The  Temptation, 

of  course,  and  Expulsion; 

Cain  killing  Abel,  his  Brother  —  the  merest  frag- 
ment of  murder; 
Noah's   Debauch  —  the   trunk    of   the    sea-faring 

patriarch  naked, 
And  the  garment,  borne   backward  to   cover   it, 

fearfully  tattered; 

Abraham  offering  Isaac  —  no  visible  Isaac,  and  only 
Abraham's  lifted  knife  held  back  by  the  hovering 

angel ; 
Martyrdom  of  Saint  Stephen  —  a  part  of  the  figure 

of  Stephen ; 
And  the  Conversion  of  Paul  —  the  greaves  on  the 

leg  of  a  soldier 
Held  across  the  back  of  a  prostrate  horse  by  the 

stirrup; 
But  when  I  looked  at  the  face  of  that  tearful  and 

beauteous  figure,  — 


204  Pordenonc. 

Eve  in  the  fresco  there,  and,  in  Venice  of  old, 

Violante, 
As  I  must  fain-  believe   (the  lovely  daughter  of 

Palma, 
Who  was  her  father's  Saint  Barbara,  and  was  the 

Bella  of  Titian),  — 
Such  a  meaning    and  life  shone   forth  from   its 

animate  presence 
As    could    restore    those    vague    and    ineffectual 

pictures, 
With  their  pristine  colors,  and  fill  them  with  light 

and  with  movement. 
Nay,  sometimes  it  could  blind  me  to  all  the  present 

about  me, 
Till  I  beheld  no  more  the  sausage-legged  Austrian 

soldiers, 
Where  they  stood  on  guard  beside  one  door  of  the 

Convent, 
Nor  the  sentinel  beggars  that  watched  the  approach 

to  the  other ; 
Neither  the  bigolanti,  the.  broad-backed   Friulan 

maidens, 
Drawing  the  water  with  clatter  and  splashing,  and 

laughter  and  gossip, 
Out  of  the  carven  well  in  the  midst  of  the  court  of 

the  Convent  — 
No,  not  even  the  one  with  the  mole  on  her  cheek 

and  the  sidelong 


Pordenone.  205 

Look,  as  she  ambled  forth  with  her  buckets  of 

bronze  at  her  shoulder, 
Swinging  upon  the  yoke  to  and  fro,  a-drip  and 

a-glimmer. 
All  in  an  instant  was  changed,  and  once  more  the 

cloister  was  peopled 
By  the  serene  monks  of  old,  and  against  walls  of 

the  cloisters, 
High  on  his  scaffolding  raised,  Pordenone  *  wrought 

at  his  frescos. 
Armed  with  dagger  and  sword,  as  the  legend  tells, 

against  Titian, 
Who  was  his  rival  hi  art  and  in  love. 


IV. 

It  seemed  to  be  summer, 
In  the  forenoon   of  the   day;   and   the  master's 

diligent  pencil 
Laid  its  last  light  touches  'on  Eve  driven  forth  out 

of  Eden, 

Otherwise  Violante,  and  while  his  pupils  about  him 
Wrought  and  chattered,  in  silence  ran  the  thought 

of  the  painter : 

*  Giovanni  Antonio  Licinio,  called  Pordenone  from  his 
birth-place  in  the  Friuli,  was  a  contemporary  of  Titian's, 
whom  he  equalled  in  many  qualities,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
eminent  Venetian  painters  in  fresco. 


206  Pordenone. 

"  She,   and   forever  she !     Is  it  come  to  be  my 

perdition  1 
Shall   I,   then,  never  more  make  the  face  of  a 

beautiful  woman 
But  it   must   take   her    divine,   accursed    beauty 

upon  it, 
And,  when  I  finish  my  work,  stand  forth  her  visible 

presence  1 
Ah  I  I  could  take  this  sword  and  strike  it  into  her 

bosom! 
Though  I  believe  my  own  heart's  blood  would 

stream  from  the  painting, 
So  much  I  love  her !    Yes,  that  look  is  marvellous 

like  you, 
Wandering,  tender — such  as  I'd  give  my  salvation 

to  win  you 
Once  to  bend  upon  me  I     But  I  knew  myself  better 

than  make  you, 
Lest  I  should  play  the  fool  about  you  here  before 

people, 
Helpless  to  turn  away  from   your   violet    eyes, 

Violante, 

That  have  turned  all  my  life  to  a  vision  of  mad- 
ness."    The  painter 
Here  unto  speech  betraying  the  thoughts  he  had 

silently  pondered, 
"  Visions,  visions,  my  son  ] "  said  a  gray  old  friar 

who  listened, 


Pordenone.  207 

Seated  there  in  the  sun,  with  his  eye  on  the  work 

of  the  painter 
Fishily  fixed,  while  the  master  blasphemed  behind 

his  mustaches. 
"Much  have  I  envied  your  Art,  who  vouchsafeth 

to  those  who  adore  her 
Visions  of  heavenly  splendor  denied  to  fastings  and 

vigils. 
I  have  spent  days  and  nights  of  faint  and  painful 

devotion, 
Scourged    myself    almost  to   death,   without  one 

glimpse   of  the  glory 
Which  your  touch  "has  revealed  in  the  face  of  that 

heavenly  maiden. 
Pleasure  me  to  repeat  what  it  was  you  were  saying 

of  visions : 
Fain  would  I  know  how  they  come  to  you,  though 

/never  see  them, 
And  in  my  thickness  of  hearing  I  fear  some  words 

have  escaped  me." 
Then,  while  the  painter  glared  on  the  lifted  face  of 

the  friar, 
Baleful,  breathless,  bewildered,  fiercer  than  noon  in 

the  dog-days, 
Round  the  circle  of  pupils  there  ran  a  tittering 

murmur ; 
From  the  lips  to  the  ears  of  those  nameless  Beppis 

and  Gigis 


208  Pordenone. 

Buzzed  the  stinging  whisper:  "Let's  hear  Porde- 

none's  confession." 
Well  they  knew  the  master's  luckless  love,  and 

whose  portrait 
He  had  unconsciously  painted  there,  and  guessed 

that  his  visions 
Scarcely  were  those  conceived  by  the  friar,  who 

constantly  blundered 
Round    the    painter    at    work,    mistaking    every 

subject  — 
Noah's    drunken    Debauch    for    the    Stoning    of 

Stephen  the   Martyr, 
And  the  Conversion  of  Paul  for  the  Flight  into 

Egypt ;  forever 
Putting  his  hand  to  his  ear  and  shouting,  "  Speak 

louder,  I  pray  you  !  " 

So  they  waited  now,  in  silent,  amused  expectation, 
Till   Pordenone's  angry  scorn   should    gather    to 

bursting. 
Long  the  painter  gazed  in  furious  silence,  then 

slowly 
Uttered  a  kind  of  moan,  and  turned  again  to  his 

labor. 
Tears  gathered  into  his  eyes,  of  mortification  and 

pathos, 
And  when  the  dull  old  monk,  who  forgot,  while  he 

waited  the  answer, 
Visions  and  painter,  and  all,  had  maundered  away 

in  his  error, 


Pordenone.  209 

Pordenone  half  envied  the  imbecile  peace  of  his 

bosom ; 
"  For  in  my  own,"  he  mused,  "  is  such  a  combat  of 

devils, 
That  I  believe  torpid  age  or  stupid  youth  would  be 

better 
Than  this  manhood  of  mine  that  has  climbed  aloft 

to  discover 
Heights  which  I  never  can  reach,  and  bright  on  the 

pinnacle  standing 
In  the  unfading  light,  my  rival   crowned  victor 

above  me. 
If  I  could  hint  what  I  feel,  what  forever  escapes 

from  my  pencil, 
All  after-time  should   know  my  will  was  not  less 

than  my  failure, 
Nor  should   any  one  dare  remember  me  merely 

in  pity. 
All  should  read  my  sorrows  and  do  my  discomfiture 

homage, 
Saying :   '  Not   meanly  at  any  time  this  painter 

meant  or  endeavored ; 
His  was  the  anguish  of  one  who  falls  short  of  the 

highest  achievement, 
Conscious  of  doing  his  utmost,  and  knowing  how 

vast  his  defeat  is. 
Life,  if  he  would,  might  have  had  some  second 

guerdon  to  give  him, 
14 


210  Pordenvne. 

But  he  would  only  the  first ;  and  behold !     Let 

us  honor 
Grief  such  as  his  must  have  been  ;  no  other  sorrow 

can  match  it ! 
There  are  certainly  some  things  here  that  are  nobly 

imagined : 
Look  !  here  is  masterly  power  in  this  play  of  light, 

and  these  shadows 
Boldly  are  massed  ;  and  what  color !     One  can  well 

understand  Buonarotti 
Saying   the  sight  of  his   Curtius  was  worth   the 

whole  journey  from  Florence. 
Here  is  a  man  at  least  never  less  than  his  work ; 

you  can  feel  it 
As  you  can  feel  in  Titian's  the  painter's  inferior 

spirit. 
He  and   this   Pordenone,  you  know,  were  rivals; 

and  Titian 
Knew  how  to  paint  to  the  popular  humor,  and 

spared  not 
Foul  means  or  fair  (his  way  with  rivals)  to  crush 

Pordenone, 
Who  with  an  equal  chance1  — 

"  Alas,  if  the  whole  world  should  tell  me 
I  was  his  equal  in  art,  and  the  lie  could  save  me 

from  torment. 
So  must    I    be  lost,   for  my  soul    could    never 

believe  it  I 


Pordenone.  211 

Nay,  let  my  envy  snarl  as  fierce  as  it  will  at  his 

glory, 
Still,  when   I  look  on  his  work,  my  soul  makes 

obeisance  within  me, 
Humbling  itself  before  the  touch  that  shall  never 

be  equalled." 


He  who  sleeps  in  continual  noise  is  wakened  by 

silence, 
And  Pordenone  was  roused  from  these  thoughts 

anon  by  the  sudden 
Hush  that  had  fallen  upon  the  garrulous  group  of 

his  pupils  ; 
And  ere  he  turned  half-way  with  instinctive  looks 

of  inquiry, 
He  was  already  warned,  with  a  shock  at  the  heart, 

of  a  presence 
Long  attended,  not  feared ;  and  he  laid  one  hand 

on  his  sword-hilt, 
Seizing  the  sheath  with  the  other  hand,  that  the 

pallet  had  dropped  from. 
Then  he  fronted  Titian,  who  stood  with  his  arms 

lightly  folded, 
And  with  a  curious  smile,  half  of  sarcasm,  half  of 

compassion, 
Bent  on  th'  embattled  painter,  cried  :  "  Your  slave, 

Messere  Antonio  ! 


212  Porderume. 

What  good  friend  has  played  this  bitter  jest  with 

your  humor  1 
As  I  beheld  you  just  now  full-armed  with  your 

pencil  and  palette, 
I  was  half  awed  by  your  might;  but  these  sorry 

trappings  of  bravo 
Make  me  believe  you  less  fit  to  be  the  rival  of 

Titian, 
Here  in  the  peaceful  calm  of  our  well-ordered  city 

of  Venice, 
Than  to  take  service  under  some  Spanish  lordling 

at  Naples, 
Needy  in  blades  for  work  that  can  not  wait  for  the 

poison. " 


Pordenone  flushed  with   anger  and   shame  to  be 

taken 
At  an  unguarded   point ;   but   he  answered  with 

scornful  defiance  : 
"  Oh,  you  are  come,  I  see,  with  th«  favorite  weapon 

of  Titian, 
And  you  would  make  a  battle  of  words.     If  you 

care  for  my  counsel, 
Listen  to  me :  I  say  you  are  skilfuller  far  hi  my 

absence, 
And  your  tongue  can  inflict  a  keener  and  deadlier 

mischief 


Pordenone.  213 

When  it  is  dipped  in  poisonous  lies,  and  wielded  in 

secret." 
"Nay,  then,"  Titian  responded,   "methinks  that 

our  friend  Aretino* 
Makes  a  much   better  effect  than  either  of  us  in 

that  tongue-play. 
But  since  Messer  Kobusti  has  measured  our  wit  for 

his  portrait, 
Even  he  has  grown  shyer  of  using  his  tongue  than 

he  once  was. 
Have  you  not  heard  the  tale  1     Tintoretto  was  told 

Aretino 
Meant  to  make  him  the  subject  of  one  of  his  merry 

effusions ; 
And  with  his  naked  dirk  he  went  carefully  over  his 

person, 
Promising,  if  the  poet  made  free  with  him  in  his 

verses, 
He  would  immortalize  my  satirical  friend  with  that 

pencil. 
Doubtless    the    tale   is    not    true.     Aretino   says 

nothing  about  it ; 
Always  speaks,  in  fact,  with  the  highest  respect  of 

Eobusti. 

*  Pietro  Aretino,  the  satirical  poet,  was  a  friend  of  Titian, 
whose  house  he  frequented.  The  story  of  Tintoretto's  measur- 
ing him  for  a  portrait  with  his  dagger  is  well  known. 


214  Pordenone. 

True  or  not,  't  is  well  found."     Then  looking  around 

on  the  frescos : 
"  Good,  very  good  indeed !      Your  breadth  and 

richness  and  softness 
No  man  living  surpasses ;  those  heads  are  truly 

majestic. 
Yes,  Buonarotti  was  right,  when  he  said  that  to 

look  at  your  Curtius 
Richly  repaid  him  the  trouble  and  cost  of  a  journey 

from  Florence. 
Surely  the  world   shall    know    you  the  first   of 

painters  in  fresco! 
Well  ?    You  will  not  strike  me  unarmed  ?    This 

was  hardly  expected 
By  the  good  people  that  taught  you  to  think  our 

rivalry  blood-red. 
Let  us  be  friends,  Pordenone  ! " 

"  Be  patron  and  patronized,  rather ; 
Nay,  if  you  spoke  your  whole  mind  out,  be  assassin 

and  victim. 
Could  the  life  beat  again  in  the  broken  heart  of 

Giorgione, 
He  might  tell  us,  I  think,  something  pleasant  of 

friendship  with  Titian." 
Suddenly  over  the  shoulder  of  Titian  peered  an 

ironical  visage, 
Smiling,  malignly  intent  —  the  leer  of  the  scurrilous 

poet: 


Pordenone.  215 

"  You  know  —  all  the  world  knows  —  who  dug  the 

grave  of  Giorgione.* 
Titian   and    he   were   no  friends  —  our    Lady   of 

Sorrows  forgive  'em  ! 
But  for  all  hurt  that  Titian  did  him  he  might  have 

been  living, 
Greater  than  any  living,  and  lord  of  renown  and 

such  glory 
As  would  have  left  you  both  dull  as  yon  withered 

moon  in  the  sunshine." 
Loud  laughed  the  listening  group  at  the  insolent 

gibe  of  the  poet, 
Stirring  the  gall  to  its  depths  in  the  bitter  soul 

of  their  master, 
Who  with  his  tremulous  fingers  tapped  the   hilt 

of  his  poniard, 
Answering  naught  as  yet.     Anon  the  glance  of  the 

ribald, 
Carelessly  ranging  from  Pordenone's  face  to  the 

picture, 
Dwelt  with    an   absent    light   on  its  marvellous 

beauty,  and  kindled 
Into  a  slow  recognition,  with  "  Ha !   Violante ! " 

Then,  erring 
Wilfully  as  to  the  subject,  he  cackled  his  filthy 

derision  : 

*  Giorgione  (Giorgio  Barbarelli)  was  Titian's  fellow-pupil 
and  rival  in  the  school  of  Bellini.  He  died  at  thirty-four,  after 
a  life  of  great  triumphs  and  excesses. 


216  Pordenone. 

"  What  have  wo  here  1    More  Magdalens  yet  of  the 

painter's  acquaintance  ? 
Ah—!" 

The  words  had  scarce  left  his  lips,  when 

the  painter 
Rushed  upon  him,  and  clutching  his  throat,  thrust 

him  backward  and  held  him 
Over  the  scaffolding's  edge  in  air,  and  straightway 

had  flung  him 
Crashing  down  on  the  pave  of  the  cloister  below, 

but  for  Titian, 
Who  around   painter  and   poet   alike  wound  his 

strong  arms  and  stayed  them 
Solely,  until  the  bewildered  pupils  could  come  to 

the  rescue. 
Then,  as  the  foes  relaxed  that  embrace  of  frenzy 

and  murder  — 
White,  one  with  rage  and  the  other  with  terror, 

and  either  with  hatred  — 
Grimly  the  great  master  smiled  :  "  You  were  much 

nearer  paradise,  Piero, 
Than  you  have  been  for  some  time.     Be  ruled  now 

by  me  and  get  homeward 
Fast  as  you  may,  and  be  thankful."     And  then,  as 

the  poet, 
Looking  neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  amid  the 

smiles  of  the  pupils 

Tottered  along  the  platform,  and  trembling  de- 
scended the  ladder 


Pordenone.  217 

Down  to  the  cloister  pave,  and,  still  without  upward 

or  backward 
Glance,  disappeared  beneath  the  outer  door  of  the 

Convent, 
Titian  turned   again  to   the   painter :    "  Farewell, 

Pordenone ! 
Learn  more  fairly  to  know  me.     I  envy  you  not ; 

and  no  rival 
Now,  or  at  any  time,  have  I  held  you,  or  ever  shall 

hold  you. 
Prosper  and  triumph  still,  for  all  me  :  you  shall  but 

do  me  honor, 
Seeing  that  I  too  serve  the  art  that  your  triumphs 

illustrate. 
I  for  my  part  find  life  too  short  for  work  and  for 

pleasure ; 
If  it  should  touch  a  century's  bound,  I  should  think 

it  too  precious 
Even  to  spare  a  moment  for  rage  at  another's  good 

fortune. 
Do  not  be  fooled  by  the  purblind  flatterers  who 

would  persuade  you 
Either  of  us  shall  have  greater  fame  through  the 

fall  of  the  other. 
We   can   thrive   only   in   common.      The    tardily 

blossoming  cycles, 
Flowering  at  last  in  this  glorious  age  of  our  art, 

had  not  waited, 


218  Pordenone. 

Folded  calyxes  still,  for  Pordencne  or  Titian. 
Think  you  if  we  had  not  been,  our  pictures  had 

never  been  painted  1 
Others  had  done  them,  or  better,  the  same.    We 

are  only 
Pencils  God  paints  with.     And  think  you  that  He 

had  wanted  for  pencils 
But  for  our  being  at  hand  1    And  yet  —  for  some 

virtue  creative 
Dwells  and  divinely  exists  in  the  being  of  every 

creature, 
So  that  the  thing  done  through  him  is  dear  as  if 

he  had  done  it  — 
If  I  should  see  your  power,  a  tint  of  this  great 

efflorescence, 
Fading,  methinks  I  should  feel  myself  beginning  to 

wither. 
They  have  abused  your  hate  who  told  you  that 

Titian  was  jealous. 
Once,  in  my  youth  that  is  passed,  I  too  had  my 

hates  and  my  envies. 
'Sdeath  !  how  it  used  to  gall  me  —  that  power  and 

depth  of  Giorgione ! 
I  could  have  turned  my  knife  in  his  heart  when 

I  looked  at  his  portraits. 
Ah!   we  learn  somewhat  still  as  the  years  go. 

Now,  when  I  see  you 


Pordenone.  219 

Doing  this  good  work  here,  I  am  glad  in  my  soul 

of  its  beauty. 
Art  is  not  ours,  O  friend !  but  if  we  are  not  hers, 

we  are  nothing. 
Look   at   the   face    you    painted    last    year  — or 

yesterday,  even : 
Far,  so  far,  it  seems  from  you,  so  utterly,  finally, 

parted, 
Nothing  is  stranger  to  you  than  this  child  of  your 

soul ;  and  you  wonder  — 
'Did   I  indeed  then  do   it?'     No   thrill   of  the 

rapture  of  doing 
Stirs  in  your  breast  at  the  sight.     Nay,  then,  not 

even  the  beauty 
Which  we  had  seemed  to  create  is  our  own  :  the 

frame  universal 
Is  as  much  ours.     And  shall  I  hate  you  because 

you  are  doing 
That  which  when  done  you  cannot  feel  yours  more 

than  I  mine  can  feel  it  1 
It  shall  belong  hereafter  to  all  who  perceive  and 

enjoy  it, 
Rather  than  him  who  made  it;  he,  least  of  all, 

shall  enjoy  it. 
They  of  the  Church  conjure  us  to  look  on  death 

and  be  humble ; 
I  say,  look  upon  life  and  keep  your  pride  if  you 

can,  then : 


220  Pordenone. 

See  how  to-day's  achievement  is  only  to-morrow's 

confusion ; 
See  how  possession  always  cheapens  the  thing  that 

was  precious 
To  our  endeavor ;  how  losses  and  gains  are  equally 

losses ; 
How  in  ourselves  we  are  nothing,  and  how  we  are 

anything  only 
As  indifferent  parts  of  the  whole,  that  still,  on  our 

ceasing, 
Whole  remains  as  before,  no  less  without  us  than 

with  us. 
Were  it  not  for  the  delight  of  doing,  the  wonderful 

instant 
Ere  the  thing  done  is  done  and  dead,  life  scarce 

were  worth  living. 
Ah,  but  that  makes  life  divine !     We  are  gods,  for 

that  instant  immortal, 
Mortal  for  evermore,  with  a  few  days'  rumor  —  or 

ages'  — 
What  does  it  matter]    We,  too,  have  our  share  of 

eating  and  drinking, 
Love,  and  the  liking  of  friends  —  mankind's  common 

portion  and  pleasure. 
Come,  Pordenone,  with  me  ;  I  would  fain  have  you 

see  my  Assumption 
While  it  is  still  unfinished,  and  stay  with  me  for 

the  evening  : 


Pordenone.  221 

You  shall  send  home  for  your  lute,  and  I  '11  ask 

Sansovino  to  supper.* 
After  what  happened  just  now  I  scarcely  could  ask 

Aretino ; 
Though,  for  the  matter  of  that,  the  dog  is  not  one 

to  bear  malice. 
Will  you  not  come  ? " 


v. 

I  listen  with  Titian,  and  wait  for  the  answer. 
But,  whatever  the  answer  that  comes  to  Titian, 

I  hear  none. 
Nay,  while  I  linger,  all  those  presences  fade  into 

nothing, 
In  the  dead  air  of  the  past ;  and  the  old  Augus- 

tinian  Convent 
Lapses    to    picturesque    profanation    again    as    a 

barrack ; 
Lapses  and  changes   once   more,   and    this    time 

vanishes  wholly, 
Leaving  me  at  the  end  with  the  broken,  shadowy 

legend, 
Broken  and  shadowy  still,  as   in  the   beginning. 

I  linger, 

*  Sansovino,  the  architect,  was  a  familiar  guest  at  Titian's 
table,  in  his  house  near  the  Fondamenta  Nuove. 


222  Pordenone. 

Teased  with  its  vague  unfathomed  suggestion,  and 

wonder, 
As  at  first  I   wondered,   what    happened    about 

Violante, 
And  am  but  ill  content  with  those  metaphysical 

phrases 
Touching  the  strictly  impersonal  nature  of  personal 

effort, 
Wherewithal  Titian  had  fain  avoided  the  matter 

at  issue. 


The  Long  Days.  223 


THE  LONG  DAYS. 

TES !  they  are  here  again,  the  long,  long  days, 
After  the  days  of  winter,  pinched  and  white ; 
Soon,  with  a  thousand  minstrels  comes  the  light, 
Late,  the  sweet  robin-haunted  dusk  delays. 

But  the  long  days  that  bring  us  back  the  flowers, 
The  sunshine,  and  the  quiet-dripping  rain, 
And  all  the  things  we  knew  of  spring  again, 

The  long  days  bring  not  the  long-lost  long  hours. 

The  hours  that  now  seem  to  have  been  each  one 
A  summer  in  itself,  a  whole  life's  bound, 
Filled  full  of  deathless  joy  —  where  in  his  round, 

Have  these  forever  faded  from  the  sun  ? 

The  fret,  the  fever,  the  unrest  endures, 

But  the  time  flies.  ...  Oh,  try,  my  little  lad, 
Coming  so  hot  and  play-worn,  to  be  glad 

And  patient  of  the  long  hours  that  are  yours ! 


<J 


